


Apricity

by honeysweetcutie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bulimia, Dreamwalking, Eating Disorders, F/M, Recovery, Ron Bashing, Smut, Soulmates, Toxic Relationships, Trauma, degradation kink, emotional/verbal abuse, rape in chapter eight, theo bashing (sorry)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 44
Words: 315,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29699280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeysweetcutie/pseuds/honeysweetcutie
Summary: In Fourth Year, Draco is fed up. He's tired of seeing grey where there should be color. So, he kisses Hermione. She slaps him. Problem not solved. By Eighth Year, he's sure of three things: she doesn't like it when he touches her dishes, he doesn't mind standing with her while she cries, and she looks really cute with her hair in buns.[reuploading to protect against plagiarism]
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	1. Trigger Warnings & Notes

**DO NOT READ THIS STORY IF YOU ONLY LIKE COMPLETED WORKS. - IT IS A WIP**  
 **I left the Harry Potter fandom.**  
This is being uploaded for archive purposes so that it is always clear who wrote it. There are 40 chapters completed - 6 more were mapped out before I left fandom.  
This story is incomplete and I do not know when it will be completed, if ever. But with Wattpad taking stories down, I don't want the story to be lost from a reputable source. I do have the entire PDF available on my website without signing up for anything. You literally just go to honeysweetwriting dot com / fanfictions, and the pdf is there. But I think I need to update it because it is one chapter behind. FFN has good accessibility options for hard-of-hearing, and so I'd like the fic to be up here, too.

Anyway, I received multiple requests on my Tiktok and Wattpad to put this up on FFN since I no longer post my HP works on AO3, so I am putting it back up.

 **DO NOT FEEL INCLINED TO LEAVE A REVIEW**. I ACTUALLY DO NOT WANT ANY! This story is well-loved on Wattpad and the Tok, so I have received an abundance. Simply enjoy reading without the pressure of leaving a comment~

This fic is also unedited so if there's spelling and grammar mistakes, the world shall keep spinning because I'm not touching this story with a ten-foot pole lol. I adapted the fanfic into an original trilogy with the first book being called _Starlight on the Snow,_ and the revisions to make it original were a _bitch_ , so Apricity the fanfic is remaining unedited _~fivever~_

**FULL TRANSPARENCY: this fanfiction has been turned into an original work series. There are 5 books. Book One is already published.**

* * *

**TRIGGER WARNINGS:**  
Toxic relationships  
Graphic descriptive eating disorder content including purging  
Language  
Abuse  
Drug use - marijuana after Chapter 22 I believe  
R*pe scene in Chapter 8 and subsequent trauma/PTSD from it  
Alcohol  
Violence  
 _If you believe I have missed a trigger warning at any time, kindly send me a respectful PM and I will add it in if I agree!_

* * *

**As always, I write trauma recovery from personal experience so be mindful and respectful in your reviews. I monitor them all.**

**Thank you!**


	2. Prologue

**Apricity – Prologue**

/

**Summer 1994**

_She'd melted him like sunlight._

_All his life, Draco Malfoy had stood frozen in the center of the wasteland that was Pureblood wizarding culture, forcing his heart to remain rigid no matter what the cost. He'd made himself as cold as stone to ensure that he kept his parents happy and stayed true to who they wanted him to be._

_With one swift right hook to the nose, Hermione Granger had broken him down and remade him in the image of a disaster._

_Draco spent the Summer after his Third Year in a foggy haze. Nothing brought him joy. The things that had once lifted his spirits and sent him soaring now chained him at the ankle and dragged him to the depths. He felt sick. Sick and wrong and empty. Like half of himself was missing._

_Like she'd taken it._

_And he was angry with her, he supposed, when he really thought about it. Because before she hit him, everything was certain. Everything was in its place. He knew who he was, who he was going to be, and what colors the world was painted in._

_Now, it was just grey._

_His father didn't notice, hang the prick—he never noticed anything but failure. His mother did, however. She noticed that Draco wasn't out on his broom, zooming around the estate like he usually was. He wasn't in the stables, petting and stroking the manes of the Abraxans, and he certainly wasn't out feeding the peacocks with Lucius. He came down to eat, but it was mechanical and quiet—unlike the chatty boy who'd come home from Hogwarts after First and Second Years._

_"Why don't you come take a sip of tea with me, Draco?" Narcissa had asked one morning in July._

_It was nearly noon and Draco still hadn't gotten out of his bed. He was lying on his side, arms wrapped around the pillow with his hair in eyes, staring. Staring at the air between his bed and the wall. Staring at the emptiness he felt inside._

_"I'm not thirsty," he'd said after a delay._

_"Do you have a fever?" She'd placed her wrist against his forehead, something he would have smacked her hand away for the year before. "You don't feel warm."_

_"I'm just not thirsty."_

_Narcissa had frowned, then, before she gathered up the skirts of her robes so she could sit down on the edge of his bed. When Draco let his gaze slide to meet hers, he could tell she was concerned. He just didn't have the energy to explain to her the reason why he was so tired and numb._

_"Did you sleep well? The circles beneath your eyes are ghastly, my dragon," she said in a voice similar to a gentle coo._

_Draco closed his eyes. Behind them, he saw buck teeth and honey-brown eyes._

_"I slept," he said, because it was true._

_Narcissa paused and then said, "Did you dream?"_

_Draco gritted his teeth, the humiliation spreading along his veins like wildfire. He didn't want his mother—his Pureblood witch mother—to know he'd been dreaming about a Mudblood for nearly three months. He didn't want her to think he fancied her because if she did and his father somehow found out . . ._

_"I always dream," he said, his voice a murmur._

_Narcissa ran her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep again. Even though she did not question him further, he knew she knew something. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. She was his mother._

_The next time Lucius complained about "that Mudblood Granger" at the dinner table, she shushed him and changed the subject._

_The dreams continued long into August, until they became so vivid that he woke gasping for air. They were always arbitrary—smidgeons of memories from a life that belonged to her—drops of her spirit from a distance. He went days with only a few hours of sleep. Days without any answers._

_His father finally noticed when he spilled a jar of jam in his exhaustion. It oozed out all over the table and the juices spread until they dripped onto the carpeted floor. Lucius backhanded the fourteen-year-old boy, complaining of his lack of attentiveness, and he told Narcissa to take care of it._

_After the House Elves came and cleaned up the mess, his mother walked him to his room and told him with kindness to stay there until Summer ended if he wanted to. He felt so dejected and so lost that all he did was trudge to the bed and fall into it. He didn't leave it again until September._

_When the time for school finally did roll around, Draco felt ravenous. He felt like a specter, haunting the halls of his own mind. He had no idea what was going on and his mother had no real words of comfort to offer him. His father had smacked him on the back of the head more times than he could count, complaining of his hygiene, the length of his hair, and his disinterest in his Summer studies. His clothes barely fit him, so he'd had to go with his mother to get dress shirts, ties, and trousers, and he'd run into friends from Hogwarts in Diagon Alley that could hardly recognize him._

_He was a mess, but one thing had become painful in its clarity._

_Hermione Granger was something to him, he just didn't know what._

* * *

**December 1994**

_Why did she have to wear that color?_

_She looked like an ice princess, her tawny brown skin appearing as soft as a blanket of snow and her body draped in sheets of frosty periwinkle chiffon. When Krum spun her around the dance floor of the Yule Ball, it was like her feet didn't even brush the ground. Krum touched her and Draco felt ill._

_Why did she have to wear the color that made him feel the coldest?_

_He could have left her to die the night of the Quidditch World Cup. He should have, the more he mulled it over. He should have told his father where she was so they could have gotten rid of her. That way he didn't have to feel like she was crawling along his bones. So she couldn't spread her metaphorical Muggle poison through his body._

_Draco didn't understand what was going on and why—oh fucking_ why _—did it have to be_ her _?_

_He regretted not getting rid of her then. He regretted not shedding his skin, cleaning her out, and donning the person he used to be. But the moment the Dark Mark went up and everyone started screaming, it was like the smoke in his mind—the haze that had floated around him for every waking moment since her knuckles connected with his face on the hill outside the castle—rumbled with deep thunder. He left his mother in the tent, claiming to be looking for Lucius._

_He went looking for Granger._

_Without knowing why or how, he gathered up his friends and they ran through the encampment. The screams of non-magic people rang in his ears and instead of turning and going back for his parents, he kept going. He kept looking for her._

_Why?_

_And he'd heard her screaming Potter's name. Somehow, he'd heard it, or he'd felt it. He didn't know which.  
_

_He had taken off to the Southeast, forcing Crabbe and Goyle to lumber after him, and then he skidded to a halt in the chaos. He'd barely managed to wrestle himself back into the character he made himself to be before this awful Summer, and he'd warned her. He'd warned them—Potty and the Weasel—and made sure all three of them knew that if she stayed there, she would die._

_He didn't have to do that, but he did, and as much as he regretted it, something told him that he would regret it more if he didn't make sure she survived the night._

_The dreams had continued unabated since the Summer, but seeing her that night with the fear wild behind eyes that normally showed only strength had seemed to renew them. The moment his head hit the pillow at night, he saw those eyes. When he woke in the mornings, he wondered whether or not he fancied her._

_It terrified him._

_It terrified him because he hated her. He was_ supposed _to hate her. But here she was, prancing across the expanse of his slumbering mind with her curls and her protruding beaver teeth and her bushy hair and just . . ._

_Ruining him._

_Months later, as Granger swept out of the ballroom with tears on her cheeks after arguing with the Weaselbee, her carefully coiffed curls tumbling from their pins, Draco followed her. He left his date, Pansy Parkinson with the rest of the Slytherins and followed the witch that had haunted him to the brink of sanity. He heard her soft sobs echoing down the corridor as she headed for the moving staircase room and he felt his stomach churning with each one._

_He didn't know why, but her crying bothered him._

_Maybe it was because it didn't look right. He hadn't seen her crying since First Year, when she was weak and mousy. Now, she was strong and feline, and anyone who got on her bad side came face-to-face with her claws. Or her wand._

_If she was crying, she was hurt, and something inside of him wanted to burn the world down at the thought._

_There was an alcove right before the staircase room that Draco had been to before. He'd been there with more than a few girls and tasted their lips upon his, but this time—this time he was going to pull Granger there. He was going to talk to her and ask her what the Hell curse it was that she'd placed upon him. He was going to figure out what sort of punishment she deserved—a letter to his father or an Unforgivable from the tip of his own wand._

_An Unforgivable, which he knew he wasn't supposed to know how to do, but that his father had taught him how to do on his eleventh birthday._

_Her heels clacked against the stone and one more sob left her mouth before his hand wrapped around her wrist and dragged her to the left. He saw her glance down towards her hip, no doubt looking for her wand, but then she seemed to remember that there was no need for a wand at a ball._

_She cried out in outrage and shock, but within seconds, he had her pinned to the wall. Boxing her in-between his arms, the taller boy glared down into her eyes at a much closer distance than he'd been to her since the day she'd started this all._

_He had all sorts of plans. "_ What in Salazar's name did you do to me _?" he was going to snarl. "_ What muddy curse did you place upon me with your blasted fist?" _He was going to demand answers and keep her there until she replied. He was going to ask her how she was infiltrating his dreams._

_She stood before him, the top of her head near his shoulder, the picture of only the best parts of those dreams. With her lips painted and her cheeks rouged, her lashes curling and black, she was something awash in color. Because in all of the months that he'd seen her when he closed his eyes, it was never in a nightmare._

_No, the nightmare would be what was left if he tried to pull her roots out of his soul and watch her die._

_"I may not have my wand," she said, her voice thick from her earlier weeping, "but I'll still find a way to make you regret it if you don't move the bloody Hell away from me, Malfoy."_

_He narrowed his eyes down at her. She lifted her chin. They held each other's gazes in silence and challenge. In her eyes, there was a ferocity that only belonged to her. One that he'd never noticed before but for the mud his father told him was there._

_She was fucking gorgeous._

_The span of two breaths passed and then his head snapped forward. He captured her lips mid-gasp, his head tilted to the side as he prepared to snog out of her everything she'd taken from him this Summer. The sleepless nights, the grey haze of the atmosphere, and the emptiness she'd torn into him—he was going to snog it all and consume it._

_She kissed him back._

_It was only for a moment. One brief moment where her fingers were against his face and neck and she was on the tips of her toes. They were kissing as though they were two randy students in an alcove, hoping they wouldn't get caught by a Prefect after curfew. Inside, he felt every part of his body swelling and singing and burning. It wasn't grey anymore. For just this moment, nothing was._

_Granger tasted like sunlight._

_She shoved him back, their lips tearing apart with a smacking sound, and then she slapped him. She slapped him hard enough to make his ears ring. They stared at one another, him with his jaw hanging open and his fingers twined through his platinum hair, and her with her hands over her mouth._

_The silence was shattered by her._

_"We never speak of this again. Never again. It didn't happen, do you hear me?"_

_Draco felt like he'd been hit by a Bludger. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to snog her into oblivion. But he had the wherewithal to respond._

_"Never happened."_

_She wiped the last of the tears off of her cheeks and took a shaking breath. Her lips were swollen. "Fine."_

_"Fine," he said, and it came out on a breath._

_Her heels clicked on the stone as she dashed away, each step hammering a nail into his heart._


	3. Chapter One

**Apricity – Chapter One**

" _But you know . . . Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn the light on."_

Draco could see her, drowning beneath the ice.

Granger had always been the brightest ray of light in the room. She painted a smile onto a sunlit face every morning, and from the moment he saw her in their shared common room each morning to the moment she closed her dorm room door at night, she wore that smile like a suit of armor. A suit of armor weakened by the frost that had begun to gather in the grooves, collecting bit by bit as it froze her.

And he could tell—she _wanted_ to freeze. She wanted to freeze because then she wouldn't have to think about being the person everyone expected her to be. If she were frozen, then everything could come to a complete halt, and she wouldn't have to be terrified anymore.

She was sitting out in the middle of a snow-covered field, shivering because she thought no one was watching.

She was wrong.

"How do you feel about that?"

Draco looked down at his best mate, blinking off the shroud of his thoughts. His cheeks grew hot as he realized he'd been staring out across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table.

Specifically, to watch Hermione Granger as she categorized the different components of her salad on her plate by color. As odd as he found it, it wasn't the first time he'd seen her do strange things with her food. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her do something strange, for that matter, because she was a Muggle-born, and Muggle-borns did strange things.

He'd watched her eat and then watched her leave when she was done.

He didn't mean to, need to, or want to stare at her when he was trying to put her behind him. When he was trying to forget about the fact that everything was grey and _had_ been grey since the Summer after Third Year. Though the despondency of whatever curse she'd placed on him had never gone away, it was bearable now. The staring just seemed to happen from time to time. Usually at mealtimes, and usually because she was doing something strange.

"What did you say?" Draco set his fork down on his empty plate, the colorful tattoos on his hand coming into view as he did so. The fork vanished immediately, as the dishes and cutlery tended to do at mealtimes.

Theo grinned. "I said I'm going to kill you. With snow. How do you feel about that?"

"I feel that that would not be ideal." Draco gathered his things up and began stuffing them into his satchel. "I may have to kill you in return. It's only fair."

"Naturally." Theo hopped to his feet and his grin turned wolflike. "But that would imply that you have the power to come back after death. You can't do that."

"I'm a Malfoy," Draco said as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "We have the power to do things you can't even imagine."

Theo narrowed his eyes, gullible as he was, and then pointed at him. "No. Nope. You can't _do_ that. I'm laying you out with a giant snowball, or a sword made of snow, whichever feels more satisfying."

"Why not both?"

Theo's face lit up. "Both. I like both."

Together, the two of them left the Great Hall and headed for the Head common room. As Draco walked, he felt several sets of eyes following their pathway.

He was used it.

In Seventh Year, the last thing his parents had been doing was watching his behavior, and after the Headmaster's death, the Dark Lord had been more interested in his plans overall. With no one watching him, Draco had spent the entire year getting tattoos.

The first one was for fun.

He was drunk, Zabini was insistent, and they were wandering Muggle London for the Hell of it. He hadn't expected it to hurt—nor had the tattoo artist expected the amount of blood that came out due to him having been drinking—but the longer he sat under the needle, the more he found he liked it.

Perhaps it was the vibration. Perhaps it was the pain itself. Perhaps the tattoo was the only thing that he could see in color when everything else was grey.

He wanted more.

So, he got another one the following week. And another one. Then two more. After he discovered a simple pain potion was enough to turn the feeling of the needles into an addiction and a charm sped up the healing process, he got five more within one month. All he had to do was go to Gringott's, exchange galleons for pounds, and he was back to the same tattoo artist.

By the end of April, Draco's arms, chest, abdomen, and back were covered in every color he could think of. Blues, reds, greens, solid black lines, white shading . . . The tattoos were random but they told a story—one that only Draco knew the plot of, and one that he would likely never be able to explain.

And when he couldn't get the image of Granger's veins being melted by the Cruciatus on the floor of his home out of his head, he went and got tattoos across the base of the front of his neck. They stretched across his collarbones, choking him. He didn't take a pain potion before he went.

He got tattoos on the back of his hands to cope with his father's trial, and he got some on the back of his neck to cope with his mother's death. He had so many now that he wasn't sure what to get next.

So, he wasn't surprised that everyone liked to stare at him now.

He probably looked like a Death Eater.

The Head common room was located in the same corridor, behind a more recent portrait of Professor Dumbledore. Draco hated facing the portrait, even though he'd found himself drunkenly apologizing to it after a Hogsmeade trip just last month, but today he was more focused on getting back to the dorm room so he could bundle up before they went outside.

That, and he didn't want to run into Granger unless he had to. It was bad enough sleeping in a room beside hers, but it was even worse knowing that in all the years he'd been seeing her in his dreams, on the night of August 17th, 1998, he'd seen her in a nightmare.

He didn't know what he'd seen or what had happened because it was dark and confusing, but he knew that something had changed in her since then. Something that he hadn't felt before in whatever bond it was they shared.

"You're so lucky," Theo whined, a lock of his wavy dark brown hair falling forward into his eyes. He was much shorter than Draco—who stood over six-foot—and one step of Draco's were two of his.

"Why?"

"Because you get your own dorm room, your own common room with a— _with a kitchen,_ Draco! Do _not_ rob me of my envy!" Theo held up a dramatic finger when Draco tried to protest his apparent fortune.

Draco rolled his eyes and spoke with sarcasm. "No one is trying to rob you. You're _welcome_ to skive off the usage of my personal kitchenette."

"Didn't you say Granger's always there, though? How does she feel about guests using her cooker? Can I keep leftovers in your fridge? They never let me have leftovers at dinner, and—"

"She lurks about." Draco cut him off as they came to the portrait. Sometimes, Theo wore on his nerves, but they'd been friends for so long that there was no way he was letting him fall off the back of the broom anytime soon.

Averting his eyes from the calm gaze of his former Headmaster, Draco muttered the password. It swung open and he led the way inside.

Greeted by the Christmas decorations Granger had put up a week ago, Draco held in a sigh of frustration. He was sick to death of the lights. He could tolerate the floating candles and stars twinkling on the ceiling, but he'd _had_ it with the smell of gingerbread.

His eyes swept over the tree in the corner, a sourness pulling the corners of his lips down, and he made a mental note to put some sort of wrapped gift underneath it so it didn't look so . . . Poor in their shared common room.

What a wild first week of November.

"Whoa," Theo said, eyes widening as he looked at all of the nonsense Granger had put up. "It looks like Christmas blew up in here. It reminds me of—"

"Hell?"

"Not particularly, but . . ." Theo snorted with laughter. "I mean, what sort-of Hell d'you think they're sending us to? If there's gifts, sign me the fuck up."

Draco hung his satchel up on a hook, a distasteful eye landing on Granger's discarded things all over the floor and couch. She'd obviously been studying at the coffee table, and there were two plates and a bowl that had been emptied of food. He cast a glance down the hallway and saw that the door to the loo was shut. He pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"You're mistaken," he bit out through clenched teeth as he glared. "This already _is_ Hell."

Theo looked around and crossed his arms over his chest. He grimaced. "I would have thought Granger was the clean sort. This is . . . Well."

"Unfathomable." Draco ripped his wand out of his sleeve and brandished it. He had lost count of how many times he'd told Granger in a calm tone to tidy up after herself, and he was about ready to stop using a calm tone. He was starting to want to raise his voice, and the last time he raised his voice to another person, it was to Potter.

Granger's books and papers floated to neat stack on the center of the table, and her plates and bowl carried themselves to the kitchen sink. As they set themselves to wash, her purse floated to one of the other hooks on the coat rack, hanging beside his bag. Then, the velvet pillow she'd been using to sit on returned itself to the couch.

Draco brushed past Theo so he could adjust the pillow to his exact liking, his forehead aching from how hard he was glowering.

"I don't think I've ever seen you look so troubled," Theo said, sounding amused.

"I'm going to put wards up to keep her out of the damn sitting room," Draco growled, "if she doesn't knock this shite off."

As he straightened, he turned to face Theo, who looked almost disturbed.

"What?"

"It's weird."

"What's weird?" Draco asked.

"You." He thought Theo's eyes were going to remain perpetually narrowed into slits at this point.

"How am _I_ weird?"

"No, _you're_ not weird. You're _being_ weird. There's a difference."

"No, there's not."

"Oh yes, there is."

"How am _I weird_?" Draco was _so_ close to yelling.

"You saying ' _she'_ in reference to Granger is _weird,_ mate. You spent the past seven years treating her like rubbish. Like, you didn't even treat her like the rubbish in the bin." Theo lifted his hands and moved them about, pantomiming the shape of a trash can. "You treated her like the bin the rubbish goes _into_ , and then you threw your rubbish _into_ her for seven years. Mate, it's weird."

"It's not weird."

Theo shook his head. "Yeah, it's a—it's a little weird."

Draco knew it was weird. He knew it was all sorts of barmy that he'd put so much time and effort into diminishing a person whose existence had no bearing against his, all because he thought she'd cursed him. He'd acted like the fact that she breathed was a personal attack on his magical core; like the fact that Muggle-borns existed was a threat to Pureblood wizards everywhere.

It was a prime example of his father's venom seeping into his veins and poisoning him from the inside out. After his mother's death that July, he'd made a vow to stop subscribing to the toxic ideals that had caused the war in the first place. If it weren't for those ideals, his mother never would have turned to food to reconcile her stress levels.

"Yeah, yeah," Draco snapped, waving his tattooed hand in a dismissive motion. "But remember that I'm Head Boy. I can take points away from you. _So_ many points."

Theo threw his head back and laughed. "Yeah, you can do that, huh? You're gonna take points away from your own House?"

Draco smirked and moved to retort, but the door to the loo opened suddenly, drawing the boys' attention.

Granger stepped out, looking a little surprised to see Theo standing there. It was only the second time that he'd been in the dorm, and Draco didn't think he'd ever seen her have a friend back to their shared common room. With Potter at the Ministry in Auror training, he saw her either with the Weaselbee, or surrounded by students of all ages for different school-related things.

It looked as though she had quite a lot of friends, so he surmised that either she was a private person, or she was not really friends with any of those people. As for the Weasel, Draco had a feeling she knew that putting him and Weasley in the same room was a bad idea.

Especially with the knowledge that only two people in the entire world knew that Draco and Granger had kissed before.

"Are you just gonna stand there staring, or are you going to be polite?" Draco arched one eyebrow and gestured to a very uncomfortable-looking Theo with mock-theatrics. "This is Theo, although seeing as he fought for the Order, you've met."

Granger ran a hand along her waist-length curls, tousling them backward. "I was just surprised to see you still had friends."

Her words smashed into him like rocks, and he fought the urge to flinch. Something about her insults hit harder than they should have. Like she could burn him with her voice.

He supposed he deserved that, after everything he'd done. He and Granger didn't "speak," so it wasn't like he'd ever had the chance to sit her down and "talk" about the past. And how could he apologize to her for things that likely didn't even bother her? Salazar, the witch had punched him in the face in Third Year and slapped him in the face after snogging him. She was probably doing just fine.

Still. He wasn't a monster. He obviously had friends.

"Yes, Granger, I know it's hard to believe."

Granger walked out of the hall and into the room, her gaze rolling across the tidied-up sitting room, and then he saw her brows knitting together. She walked over to the coffee table and bent over to gather up her books and papers. Draco caught sight of the fact that she was only wearing an oversized jumper and some sort of black cotton trousers that clung to her like a second skin, and he felt his heart going a bit faster.

He averted his eyes to Theo, who was still grimacing.

"Yes, Theo, it's always this awkward," he drawled. "Is that what you were wanting to say?"

"Uhh . . . No, I . . . That's not . . ." Theo's eyes wide, he looked back and forth.

She stood there, hugging her books against her chest as she stared directly into Theo's eyes. She was shorter than both boys, coming only to about Draco's chest, but with the way she carried herself, she seemed taller than both of them.

"It _is_ awkward," she said.

Theo winced. "Yeah, it's a little . . . A little bit so."

It wouldn't be so awkward if _Granger_ wasn't such a right _bitch_ half the time. She said things in a blunt manner and Slytherins—most Pureblood wizards, for that matter—were not accustomed to speaking what was on their minds so easily. Especially not when it could cause negative emotions to breed. Draco had always been the bluntest of his group of friends, always feeling the urge to say what he really thought lest anyone form preconceived notions about him and use them against him.

But he wasn't used to not being the only one.

"In the bathroom for forty-five minutes as usual, Granger?" Draco's voice held a note of challenge as he viewed her.

"Interested in my bathroom activities, Malfoy?" She raised the gentle arch of one eyebrow, which he noticed was as perfectly trimmed as Pansy Parkinson's. "In spite of those tattoos, I didn't take you for that sort of wizard."

Draco ran a hand through his hair in agitation as he once again considered raising his voice. "How would you know what sort of wizards there are? That would require you to have actually interacted with some outside of your two personal idiots."

Her eyes flashed. "I've had enough interactions to know what different types of wizards there are."

"Who?" Draco smirked. "Krum?"

Granger looked up at him then, and Draco was reminded of the fact that the only time that he ever saw her face looking so somber was when she was addressing him.

"I hardly think it's got anything to do with you, but yes, Krum was my boyfriend." She was pale in the face, but her eyes were alight with indignation.

"Yes, because your one-time encounter with a paedophile told you everything you needed to know about what sorts of wizards are out there."

The flames died out within her eyes.

His sneer faltered and disappeared. He hadn't meant to hit any nerves, but it seemed that he had.

He'd hit a _big_ nerve.

"Ohhh, dear." Theo scrubbed his face with his hands and pulled the largest grimace Draco had ever seen him pull.

Granger lowered her eyes for a moment, a strange expression that looked like a mix between puzzlement and languor crossing her face, and then she blinked.

Draco let out his breath and then cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but it felt like the walls of the room were closing in on him. He wasn't an arsehole. He really wasn't. He didn't _want_ to be, but it was _Granger_ , and she was driving him off his _broom_ mad. With the books on the floor and the dishes and the bathroom trips and—

"You cleaned," she finally said in a tight voice, just when Draco thought he was going to pass out from how thick the air was in the common room. Her eyes scanned the area, roving the floors and the couch as if seeing them for the first time.

"It was a mess."

"Everything was exactly where I left it." Her gaze lifted to his.

"It was a _mess_ ," Draco repeated in a slow, incredulous tone.

Theo held up his forefingers. "An _organized_ mess."

Granger and Draco both stared at him. Draco wanted to hex all of the hair off of Theo's head, but Granger laughed. She actually laughed and Draco couldn't help it. He stared.

She had a ridiculously nice set of teeth. Had they always been that white?

He turned to look at Theo, who was looking right back at him with a curious expression on his face. Draco shot him a quick, irritated look while Granger was looking over her shoulder at the kitchenette.

"Yes, my messes are rather organized," she said. "Hm. You even took my dishes, too."

"Right. That."

"Yes. That." She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, twisting her mouth as though she were lost in thought.

"'That'? What is ' _that_ '?" Theo looked confused.

"The Princess of Gryffindor doesn't like her dishes being touched, moved, cleaned, or otherwise acknowledged," Draco said in a saccharine-sweet tone, his upper lip curling.

"Why?" Theo asked, scratching the back of his head.

Draco turned to Granger. "Yes, Your Majesty. _Why_?"

As usual, he saw her gaze dip down to the tattoos on his neck and collarbones, and the ones on the part of his chest that disappeared into the open top button of his Oxford shirt. She'd never done much to show whether she approved of them or not, but he wouldn't be shocked if she thought they were reprehensible. She certainly stared at them enough.

He wondered if she knew what guilt they represented.

She glared at him for a moment before she turned her nose up into the air. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder, holding her things against her body with one arm. When she answered, she sounded so much like she had when they were younger that Draco almost felt like his mother was still alive. He pushed down the well of grief that threatened to rise up, refocusing his attention.

"I just don't like my dishes touched when I haven't finished my food," she said, and then she turned on her heel.

"The dishes were _empty_ , Granger!" Draco spluttered.

Granger whirled back around. " _They were—"_

"In all fairness . . . !" Theo clapped his hands once and rubbed them together a bit. "They _were_ empty. They looked empty."

"Unless you preferred to have a lick of the bowls?" Draco said in a sarcastic tone.

Granger went pale again and without another word, turned and stalked off. Moments later, her dorm room door slammed shut. Theo let out an audible sigh of relief.

"Salazar's _beard,_ that was . . . That was a thing."

Draco glared down the hall, not replying. This wasn't the first time he'd had a negative interaction with Granger, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. In fact, if she kept leaving her mess all over the common room, he was certain of it.

* * *

**May 1998**

_Narcissa Malfoy died two weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts._

_It was completely unexpected, as with most deaths, and it hit the Malfoy Manor like a lightning bolt. In the midst of Lucius's trial, which had been expedited in light of his war crimes, Narcissa's sudden coronary came as a shock to not only her family, but to the wizarding world at large._

_It was common knowledge that Narcissa had gotten swept up by the darkness of the Malfoy family, in spite of being a Black, and no one in the Order had any desire to put her up for scrutiny under the umbrella of Lucius's dark deeds. And when the information came to light that she had lied to the Dark Lord to spare Harry Potter's life, it was no difficult feat to pardon her of any and all wrongdoing. The wizarding world had laws, but they were built on an archaic foundation of honor and loyalty._

_But even though she'd been pardoned, the amount of reputational stress she was under was immense._

_Narcissa passed in the middle of the third part of Lucius's trial—the day his victims were testifying to the horrible curses he'd placed on them and their family members. Chirimy Babbitt was on the stand, crying and wailing about her son's perpetually bleeding eyes, when all-of-the-sudden, Narcissa gave a loud plea for help._

_She slumped over before anyone realized what was going on, falling right into the lap of her terrified son, and was dead._

_Healers scrutinized her body, looking as deep as their magic could go, but they found no blood curses and no dark magic. It would seem that her untimely, definitely-not-expected death was quite Muggle. Aurors suspected foul play, as they were wont to do in the after-war times, and Minister Shacklebolt proclaimed that the incident would be investigated thoroughly, starting with a sweep of the entirety of Malfoy Manor._

_Draco Malfoy, however, knew exactly what had killed his mother, and it was the last thing he wanted anyone to know._

_Narcissa was a private person, and she was proper. She would not have wanted anyone privy to her secrets that she had not given her confidence to, and the last thing she deserved was to have her shame blasted all over the Daily Prophet in the middle of her husband's trial._

_After giving his father one last devastated look before he was led out of the courtroom for an extended recess, he schooled his features into a mask of Pureblood indifference and allowed himself to be escorted home for the evening. When he got there, he did the one thing that he knew was necessary._

_Without the use of House Elves—to ensure absolute secrecy—Draco went through the entire Manor the night of her death. With meticulous hands, he collected all of the food that his mother had stashed in hidden pockets in the walls. He left not a single morsel._

_He knew he could not use magic to destroy it, as his wand could be checked and spell remnants could be detected, so he gathered it by hand and deposited it into an old chest that belonged to his great-grandfather. He took the treats she'd hidden in her drawers, and the perishables that were stuffed in the chiffarobe, behind invisible blockades in the wall beside her chair in the tea room, and inside of an expensive but old purse in her closet._

_Draco put all of it into the chest and carried it out of the house, past her rose garden which now seemed lifeless, and through the woods on their property. He traveled across the magical border and then did something he'd done countless times during Seventh Year to get tattoos: he gathered all of his magic to him and wandlessly Apparated to Muggle London._

_In an alley he found himself in, he took out his wand and shrunk the chest down until it was small. Then, he tossed it into the rubbish can nearby and set the entire thing on fire with an_ incendio _. He watched it burn with the cold efficacy of the Death Eater he used to be, and then he returned home to finish his task._

_He was stoic and silent while he cleaned her loo by hand, using a cloth, soap, and water. He scrubbed and he scrubbed and he scrubbed, even when the porcelain was glistening white. He scrubbed until sweat was rolling down his temples and his hair was damp from it. Even then, he scrubbed some more._

_His mother had always kept her loo clean, but they'd been in a hurry that day. She hadn't gotten the chance to clean it, and she would never have asked a House Elf to do it and risk anyone finding out._

_But Draco had known all along. He'd known it since the first time he woke up in the middle of the night as a young boy and found her eating a plate full of food at three-o-clock in the morning. He'd known it when she sat on his bed that day in the Summer, asking him how often he dreamed._

_His mother was a Legilimens, and she'd passed it down to him. He now knew she probably walked through his dreams with him while she ate._

_"Just a little bit of a snack, my dragon," she'd said the night he'd discovered her, and even back then, the sparkle had dulled in her eyes. "Go back to bed."_

_He hadn't gone back to bed. He'd sat on the bottom of the stairs and listened while she continuously had House Elves refill her plate. He hadn't known exactly what was going on—he'd just heard her crying. He couldn't tell if it was the food that was making her sad, or if it was something else that was about so much more than food._

_When all was said and done in Narcissa's bathroom, he sat down on the floor of his parents' bedroom with his back to the bed, and wept._


	4. Chapter 4

**Apricity - Chapter Two**

Draco looked up from his warm porridge, his gaze falling upon on Granger at the Gryffindor table.

Flanked by her followers, all of them clamoring to talk to one another like a gaggle of squawking geese, she sat with a smile. Draco would have sneered in the past, but now he couldn't be bothered.

He understood how things worked. He understood that as far as everyone was concerned, they were going to school with Hermione Granger, champion of the war second only to Harry Potter. He knew deep down that if he had any negative feelings towards her because of that, he would just look bitter.

In any case, he was glad the Dark Lord lost the war.

Draco realized fairly quickly that he'd made the wrong decision when he'd chosen his side. He knew now that he really could have gone to Headmaster Dumbledore for help, instead of making the decisions he had. At any point, he could have defected to the side of light. It would have changed his entire future, and it could have made things so much better for him and his mother.

His father would've stayed loyal to the Dark Lord, but Draco didn't give a flying fuck what happened to his father. It was his father's fault that his mother was gone. It was his father that he wished was dead. It was Lucius who—

Draco set his spoon down and stared down at the bowl in front of him. He took slow, deep breaths. He needed to stay calm. Under no circumstances was he going to allow himself to have an angry fit in the middle of the Great Hall. Not over his poor choices.

He had made those choices himself, and he needed to live with them.

Draco resumed eating. He glanced around the Great Hall at all of the students before his eyes roved over Granger and her ilk again.

Beside her sat the Weasel, in all of his redheaded glory. The oaf was huge now, looking like he'd been eating nothing but protein all Summer and Fall. He had his hands all over Granger as though she were the type of bird to enjoy that sort of thing.

Draco took a bite and tried not to think about the past. Tried not to think about what it felt like to have her lips beneath his own, pliant and desperate.

It really was odd, now that he thought about it. Granger and the Weaselbee. Together. Draco remembered thinking that of all the wizards a witch like Granger would end up with, it would have been Potter.

Not that he thought Granger was any specific type of witch, per se, but he wasn't _daft_. Her intelligence was not up for debate. She was always smiling and laughing—when she wasn't conversing with Draco, that is—and she seemed quick-witted. Wizards usually liked that sort of thing.

He'd liked it enough to kiss her in the alcove after the Yule Ball, hadn't he?

And if he really sat there and looked at her, he could see that she was pretty. It would be dense of him to act like she was ugly when she simply _wasn't_. She had one of those faces—the heart-shaped kind that seemed to look presentable whether she wore make-up or not. Her brows were feathery, sitting proportionate to her catlike honey-brown eyes. Eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes that always curled up just so, she had a mysterious look to her. Her lips were full and he could still remember the way they looked at the Yule Ball when they were swollen from his kiss. And her hair had gone from bushy to defined curls, falling in kinky, cloudlike ringlets all the way to the small of her back.

Sometimes, Draco wanted to slide his fingers along her jaw, take her chin in his hand, and see if she kissed the same when she was expecting it.

He nearly dropped his spoon.

Thinking of Granger as being acceptable to other wizards was one thing, but for he himself to find her _pretty_? To be able to analyze everything from the set of her eyes to the shape of her face? Thinking about _snogging_ her?

He worried he might be going mental.

A troubled expression crossed his face. He tore his eyes away from Granger, who had just brushed the Weasel's hand off of her arm with a sunny smile.

Around him, Draco's fellow Slytherins were conversing, students of varying ages gossiping with one another. He had no interest in joining in. Maybe when he was younger, but now, it seemed like a waste of time. Talking about people he didn't know personally, as if his opinion of them had any bearing on their existence. It was pathetic. Draco could admit that he'd been that pathetic when he was younger, if not more so, but he wasn't like that anymore.

He stood up, gathering his satchel so he could head to his first class of the day. He needed to get out of the Great Hall before he got caught staring at Granger like some dodgy chuffer.

Draco had a decently full class schedule to prepare for his N.E.W.T.S at the end of the year. His first class was Muggle Studies—a requirement for his rehabilitation to avoid Azkaban—and his second was Charms. After lunch, he had Intermediate Potions and Advanced Divination.

He hated Muggle Studies, not because of the content, but because it was an overwhelmingly difficult subject for him. Divination was a personal interest of his due to him wanting to pursue a career in the Department of Mysteries. Transfiguration and Potions were easy enough, but Charms and Divination were the classes he had with Granger.

Muggle Studies went by as it usually did, with a lot of lecturing and not much free time. The new professor, an older man named Professor Heffin, possessed an interest in Muggles that was purely anthropological. He didn't care about who fought on which side during the war—he only cared that Draco took diligent notes, passed quizzes, and turned in his homework.

Draco had never been able to focus well during lectures without feeling sleepy, but he felt so guilty about being the only person in the whole of Hogwarts that had seen the previous professor's death that he remained one hundred percent focused when Heffin spoke. It was just unfortunate that the material was so difficult. He had parchments upon parchments of extensive notes that he couldn't even comprehend.

Today was no different: Draco had filled six inches with elaborate notes about the machines Muggles used to make coffee, and he had no idea what any of it meant.

In Charms, Draco took his usual seat beside Pansy, who barely looked up from inspecting her nail polish as he did so.

"Draco," she greeted in a haughty tone. "You're looking dour, as usual."

"Pansy. You've a vapid air about you, as usual."

She scoffed and rolled her head to glare at him. Her oval face was done-up perfectly, framed by her long jet-black waves. She gave him a once-over. "Still wearing Sixth Year's suits, I see."

"Don't be a bitch, Pansy." He smoothed out the front of his blazer. "I like what I like, but not _that_ much. They're from _this_ year."

Pansy's sour expression cracked open like an egg, revealing a sunny-side up disposition. She grinned and leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "I know, darling. I'm just hoping if I pressure you enough, you'll stop wearing shirts under your jackets so I can see your tattoos."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"So, open your ears up," Pansy said. "You're _not_ going to believe the gossip I just heard in my last class."

Pansy was sort-of Hogwarts' Queen of Gossip, even as a returning Eighth Year, and he was sure whatever information she told him would be just as useless to him as the gossip the Slytherins had been sharing at breakfast.

Draco reached into his satchel to pull out his notes from Professor Flitwick's continuing series on charms that were helpful for nerves, and a Never Ending Ink Quill.

"Well? Don't just stare at me." He raised his eyebrows at his parchment as though it looked stupid. "Lay the nonsense on me."

Pansy clucked her tongue against her teeth, but chose not to scold him as she folded her arms on the double-length desk and leaned towards him. "I have it on good authority that one Ronald Weasley was seen _canoodling_ in the corridor outside of the Hufflepuff common room with one Gregoria Thistlewait. And they may or may not have had trousers on."

Not useless information. Not useless information at all.

"What?"

Pansy's rouged cheeks reddened further with excitement and her eyebrows shot up. "Oh, yes. And not only—listen—not _only_ is Gregoria a Sixth Year, but she's got—" She mouthed her next word, " _tits_ the size of Bludgers. I mean, listen, Draco. Look."

Draco's eyes darted downward. Pansy was holding her hands spread-eagle over her chest. His eyes lifted back to hers and she had an almost comically-surprised expression on her face. Draco arched one brow.

Pansy nodded. "Uh, _yeah_."

Draco swiveled his head back to the right, where he could see Granger sitting in her seat beside one of the Seventh Years in their class. She was in the process of writing furiously with her quill. He couldn't help but remember the way she'd pushed the Weaselbee's hand off of her arm.

Was it because she knew?

Pansy's voice came into Draco's ear, malicious and questioning. "D'you think Miss Perfect knows her boyfriend is necking in the corridors with sixteen-year-old busty broads?" She giggled and then said in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice, " _I don't thiiiink so_."

Draco eyed Granger a second longer. "I'm concerned."

"Why? About _her_?"

"About my common room. D'you understand the sort of messes she's going to leave when she finds out her wizard is everyone _else's_ wizard, too?"

When he looked at his friend, he saw the ravenette looked dour. "She's unclean _and_ her blood is dirty?"

Draco tried not to flinch. He hoped no one had heard that. He wasn't fond of Granger's personality or her cleanliness, but he couldn't act like he hadn't lied to his aunt at the Manor to keep himself from finding out how grey the world could be when Granger wasn't in it. He wasn't her friend, but he knew her worth.

"She likes her things to be left exactly in their place," Draco said in a light tone as he set his quill down. "And typically, that place is wherever she leaves them."

"I can't _believe_ you've got to share the Head common room with her. I mean, honestly, she's _smart,_ but she doesn't have the _personality_ to be Head Girl. You've got to have a sort of . . . Properness about you. And look at her, she's got bags under her eyes the size of galleons, and her hair looks like a thirty-inch long _rat's nest_."

Granger turned to say something to the person beside her with another one of her bright smiles—the kind that lit up her whole face—and he wondered if Pansy had some sort of special ability to see the unseeable, or if witches were just mean for the sake of being mean. He couldn't see anything amiss on her face, and her hair looked like it was made of cloud spires.

He mentally slapped himself. He needed to stop assessing Granger's looks, or he was going to send himself into a spiral that would take him right back to 1994.

"Well," he said in a quiet tone so no one around heard them, "I've heard Thistlewait's not exactly the most difficult witch to land, and the Weaselbee's a complete tosser. So, I'm not surprised."

The gossiping reeled Pansy back in.

"Oh, I'm not surprised, either," she purred. "Especially since I was the last one he was snogging."

Draco nearly dropped his quill. He gave her an incredulous look. He couldn't speak, not without risking the octave of his voice lifting too high.

Pansy's smirk was wicked. "I hold no reservations against Pureblood wizards of all sorts, Draco. And have you seen his arms? I mean, delicious. I had to see what changed over the Summer. It was _my_ duty to assess him and ensure that it was all right to let Granger keep him."

"To let Granger _keep_ him?" Draco's lips curled with revulsion. It had been weird enough to think of the Weasel going with Granger, but to now imagine Pansy with him? Draco himself had hooked up with Pansy more than a few times—he knew how salacious she was.

He was surprised that the buffoon had _survived_.

"She's already got everything else," Pansy said in a whining, disgruntled tone. "An Order of Merlin, an all-but-ensured place in the Ministry, _my_ Head Girl spot, and everyone's completely obsessed with her. So, I took her boyfriend."

Just then, before Draco could marvel at the vindictiveness of Pansy Parkinson, Professor Flitwick bustled into the classroom and launched into the lecture before he'd even made it to his step stool in front of the chalkboard.

"Today, class, I want to continue our study of charms that help with nerves," Flitwick said, taking out his wand and conjuring up a podium for him to lean on. "With your end of Winter term exams coming up, I thought it would be helpful if I taught you as many useful things as possible so you can start putting them into practice now. That way, when N.E.W.T.s roll around, you'll be ready."

 _Finally,_ Draco thought to himself. He was tired of all the lecturing. Flitwick had been talking _at_ them for the past week about the importance of controlling your emotions using charms when faced with nervousness, and how they could cause your marks to drop, and how silly it was to enter an exam with nausea, and so on and so forth.

But his luck was not totally fortunate.

"Before we get into the charm I want to teach you today . . ." Flitwick waved his wand and the chalk lifted into the air. It began to scrawl on the board. Draco gritted his teeth and prepared to take some notes. "I just want to talk to you a little bit about how charms have the ability to control emotions when used in the correct context."

As Flitwick spoke, Draco inevitably found his mind wandering back to Pansy's information. While he was not Granger's friend by any stretch of the imagination, he had a feeling it would suck to find out your wizard was duplicitous.

To be even more frank, the bloke was a complete idjit. If Draco had landed the wizarding world's Golden Heroine, no matter who she was, he wouldn't be so daft as to step out on her at school with an underaged witch. He remembered seeing the Weaselbee snogging Lavender Brown all over the castle in Sixth Year, but there had to be something wrong with him to be sleeping with witches in corridors. Especially if that witch was not Granger.

Come to think of it, there was no possible way that Granger was sleeping with her wizard. She never brought anyone back to the common room, she had a full class schedule—which he'd seen pinned to the wall near the kitchenette—and she never went off campus. He didn't think he'd seen her on a single Hogsmeade trip that year. The few times he had returned from one, she was sitting on the floor of the common room in her typical jumper and leggings, eating something while reading. She either had no time to fuck her oaf of a boyfriend or no desire to, and that could be the reason why he was sleeping around.

But that reason seemed so _thin._ Thin, and juvenile.

They were all eighteen now. Was sex so important to the Weasel that he'd actually _cheat_ on Hermione Granger? The witch who had been his best friend for seven years, and who he'd gallivanted all over the English countryside with looking for what the _Prophet_ had labeled, "the Dark Lord's soul canisters?" He couldn't possibly be that immature.

Draco snuck a glance in Granger's direction. She was hunched over her parchment taking notes that would likely make Professor Flitwick ask _her_ to teach the class. There had to be another reason why the Weaselbee would step out on her.

Flitwick cleared his throat and tapped his wand against the podium. "And now it's time to get into the classwork portion of today. I'm going to be teaching you a nerve-calming charm. It's excellent for when you're particularly nervous, especially before an exam, because it allows you to reduce your nausea. As I'm sure you know, some students experience test anxiety that can cause them to become sick before an important exam. This charm eradicates that issue so you can focus on your work and not your stomach."

Granger's hand shot up. "Professor Flitwick, is this spell specifically for emotion regulation in that it cancels out the emotions that _cause_ the nausea? Or for nausea in general?"

Flitwick tilted his head in thought. "Well, I suppose it's for both. It has been used by Healers for treating nausea directly, but since there are potions for that, this spell is typically used to calm nerves in a pinch. Class, I'm going to teach you an incantation—"

Her hand shot up again, her writing hand still jotting down notes. "Professor, does this spell work if you're not experiencing nausea?"

"How do you mean, Miss Granger?" Flitwick peered at her over his half-moon spectacles.

She lowered her hand and began to talk with it while consulting her notes. "For example, let's say that you were nervous, but not experiencing nausea, would it still work? Or does the nausea need to be present?"

"No, the nausea does not need to be present. The spell will soothe all negative feelings for a short time. I would actually like to discuss that with the class today. You see—"

"And what if you're feeling nauseous from being sick, or you've just eaten and feel nauseous because of something undercooked?" she said. She looked down at her notes and then back up at the professor. "Does having food in your stomach affect the potency of the charm?"

Circe, she was thorough. She always had been, but this was ridiculous. It was just a nerve calming charm.

Flitwick blinked and then said, "Er, no. The spell will work just as effectively with food in the stomach, or without."

Granger's hand was halfway up before Flitwick called on her, looking a bit exasperated. "Can it be reversed?"

Flitwick as well as several other students looked at her with funny expressions on their faces. Draco, however, was unfazed. She was a swot. Swots liked to know everything from back to front. By the end of the week, Granger would know that spell so well she could take it apart and remake it into a new one.

"Why would you want to do that, Miss Granger?" Flitwick sounded incredulous.

For the first time, Draco saw a modest blush appearing on her cheeks. She shot a couple of glances around at their classmates, one landing on him for a moment. He lifted his left eyebrow.

Sometimes he wondered if she really understood how bizarre she was.

"Oh, I just like to be thorough in my studies, professor," she said, then raised her voice again. "What I mean to say is, can the spell be used to _induce_ nausea? I only ask because I worry that it could be used by students to get _out_ of taking their exams."

She _would_ think of that. That's likely why she was Head Girl.

Draco was Head Boy because of his parole Auror's express request to keep him in line. Draco had no desire to step out of line, however, and he barely patrolled the corridors. He just wanted to pass his exams and find his future in a Ministry department that would allow him to fade into history.

Flitwick said, "Ah, yes, therein lies the issue. That, my dear, is why this is a Seventh Year level charm. Because it absolutely can be reversed and used to induce nausea, and the Ministry believes that by your Seventh Year, you're all honorable enough to use it responsibly. I won't be teaching you the reverse incantation, of course, but I know some of you are savvy enough to figure it out. Just know that the reverse incantation for the charm will _not_ be used in this class, understand?"

After a withering stare to the quiet students, he proceeded with teaching them the incantation.

"Salazar, she is so insufferable," Pansy whispered to Draco. "Can she stop asking questions for even two seconds?"

"Probably not," Draco whispered back, shaking his head at his parchment while he finished up his notes.

At the end of the period, he jotted the incantation down so he would never forget it— _Tranquillam Nervi—_ and then began putting his things back into his satchel.

There was a bit of a consternation as Granger pushed her way through the crowded doorway, and then her footsteps could be heard receding down the hallway at a rapid pace. Pansy scoffed again but said nothing as she waited by the desk's edge for Draco to follow.

"I don't know about you," she said as they trudged down the corridor, "but I'll be happy when we graduate and never have to hear her voice asking questions and derailing classes again."

Draco moved aside as a group of younger students came barreling by, laughing and screaming like children. He watched them, debating actually _being_ Head Boy for once.

The last time he scolded a student, he was told it should have been him who died, not Narcissa.

He decided to let it slide.

"Not gonna tell them to stop running in the halls?" Pansy asked.

"I care about students running in the corridors about as much as I care about your vendetta against Granger."

"You're so cruel sometimes."

"Says the witch who said that Granger had eye bags and bad hair."

Pansy elbowed him. "Stop. I'm the way I am because I'm pretty. I can get away with it."

"And I'm not pretty?"

"Of course you are. You've got good hair—it does that swooshy thing when you push it back. And you've got a jawline that could cut diamonds. And your tattoos make you look dangerous, but in the sort of way that's intimidating and not frightening. Your eyes are unsettling, though."

" _Who's_ the cruel one?" Draco wasn't really offended. It wasn't normal to have silver eyes, but something in the Malfoy family bloodline caused it. He'd accepted it.

"Still you," Pansy trilled. "Didn't you rain check our last hook up?"

"That I did."

". . . That was Sixth Year, Draco Malfoy. Who are you hooking up with?"

"No one. Can we just go to lunch? I'm starved."

Pansy gasped and let out a tiny scream, stopping dead in her tracks. Draco went ahead of her, but she grabbed the sleeve of his black blazer and whipped him around to face her. She looked like a wet dog, her blue eyes shining with accusation.

" _No,_ Draco, _who_ are you _sleeping_ with?"

The problem wasn't that Draco wasn't hooking up with anyone because he had someone else. The problem was that he wasn't shagging anyone because there was something wrong with him. There was something inside of him that made things difficult. Something that twisted its way throughout his gut whenever he thought about sex. Something that made him hate himself and worry about what might happen.

He couldn't fuck anyone without thinking about Granger.

Granger, his dreams, and the nightmare.

The one time he'd wanted to wake up more than any other time in his life. The one time he hadn't been able to see her, only to hear her screaming. Screaming that bordered on sobs. Choked sobs—the kind that he'd only ever heard around the Dark Lord. The kind that were horrific coming from Hermione Granger. Screaming and sobbing.

And pleading.

The worst part of it all was that he didn't know if any of it was real.

"I'm not sleeping with anyone."

They stepped onto the next staircase. Draco leaned back against the railing, slipping one hand into his trousers' pocket and pushing the other through his hair. He could feel Pansy's gaze upon him, searching and accusatory.

"You're not fucking Granger, are you?"

A vivid mental image of Draco doing just that flashed across his mind. For the first time in months, he drew upon every vestige of darkness he had within himself. Cloaking his emotions and thoughts in shadows, he Occluded. He didn't want anyone suspecting anything about his strange, unexplainable connection to her, least of all Pansy. When he glanced down at Pansy again, his gaze felt cold.

"Of course not, you imbecilic bint."

Pansy pursed her lips and tossed her hair. "You're so defensive about it. I really hope you're not. How repulsive and _disgusting_ it would be if you were."

"Don't be jealous. It's not a good look for you."

She scowled. "I'm _not_ jealous. The last thing I'd feel for that mangy cow's life is _jealousy_. She—"

"Come off it," he snapped, grinding his teeth. "I'm not fucking Granger, and that's the end of it."

Pansy let out a disgruntled _hmmph_ , the two of them walked onto the landing in silence. As they followed the other students towards the Great Hall, she spoke again as though nothing were amiss.

"Blaise and I are going off campus this weekend. D'you wanna come along?"

Draco thought about it for a moment, but shook his head.

"I'd better not. I should really study for the Charms exam."

"Aw. Well, I guess you'd better study for the Divination exam, too then. Blaise and I have the aura reading charm and the basic tea leaf reading down."

"I don't need to study," he said. "I'll just practice during class today when we get there."

"How on Earth you do so horrid in Divination when you're partnered with Granger, I'll never know."

"If you and Zabini would stop messing around and distracting me all through the period, then maybe I could focus."

Pansy said some more things and Draco responded, but his mind wasn't there. It was gone, back to that grey place of haze and shadows. The place where he felt cursed.

Divination was the only class where he was partnered with Granger all year. They sat at a small round table together, right at the edge of the classroom. They didn't talk much beyond what was necessary for learning, but he knew all of her absentminded mannerisms to the letter.

The way she itched the inner corners of her eyes with the pads of her forefinger. The way she wrinkled her nose and squinted her eyes to see the chalkboard when Trelawney was writing fanciful notions upon it. The way she alternated between straightening her back and slouching every ten minutes, without fail. He knew too much about her.

And he could feel her.

He looked at the Gryffindor table and saw Granger there, sorting her salad and laughing at something Hannah Abbott was saying. She glanced up, casual as she did so, and her eyes met his.

Did she feel him, too?


	5. Chapter 5

**Apricity - Chapter Three**

The week went by as normal.

Draco went to class, spent his free time with Theo, and cleaned up after Granger in the Head common room as needed. He felt exhausted, for some reason, and so didn't have the energy to heckle her for leaving her things everywhere.

He came awfully close on Thursday morning when she took one hour in the bathroom. He hadn't had the chance to use the loo, but by the time she came out, he'd already gone to use one of the boys' bathrooms in the corridor.

There was no surprise for him that he was exhausted. It took a lot of energy to keep himself from thinking about his mother, his father, and the fact that he felt so empty.

Draco spent his Friday lunch period in a silent, brooding mood. He held his brows low on his forehead, his stomach too upset to eat much of anything hearty. He ate soup, forcing himself not to look at the Gryffindor table lest Granger catch him staring again.

He did glance at her once, surreptitiously as he reached for his pumpkin juice.

She was tucking into her meal with great zeal, her mouth stuffed to the brim as the Weaselbee talked to Dean Thomas over the top of her head. She didn't seem to be contributing to the conversation, for once, and Draco was surprised to see that her food was not separated. It was piled somewhat high on her plate, a convoluted mess of colors that blended together.

Weird.

An owl dropped off two letters for him in the post: one from his father and one from his contact at the Department of Mysteries. His father's letter, he shrunk down and tucked into the pocket of his blazer, having no intention of ever reading it. The other letter, he opened quickly.

_Good morrow, Draco!_

_I hope your studies are going well. Before you know it, your end-of-year exams will be here, and all that will stand between you and a place here at the Ministry is good marks. Study hard, and study well so that we may see you this Summer!_

_However, I have heard many people telling me that there is a healthy amount of snow blanketing the campus, and I do so hope you haven't been spending too much time indoors. The key to doing well in your schoolwork is to get a healthy amount of recreational time. For every few hours that you spend studying, be sure to spend an hour or so outside with your mates._

_Will you be leaving campus for Winter holidays, or will you be staying at Hogwarts? If you decide to leave the castle, there is a room here for you to stay in at our estate. We would enjoy having you here, and there will be a place for you at Christmas supper should you choose to come._

_I know this Christmas will be tough. Please don't spend it alone._

_Now, on to business._

_I have spoken with Minister Shacklebolt, and he agrees that the Department of Mysteries would be an excellent fit for you. As you well know, I am not allowed to discuss what your job would entail due to the Secrecy Statute of Mysterious Secrets, but he has allowed me to tell you that upon successful completion of an internship, you would be able to be hired on to a full-time position. Would this be amenable to you? If so, then I can set about putting the word out in the Department to see who has work available and who requires assistance from an intern. Please reply to me post-haste so I can start searching!_

_Again, get yourself out into that snow and enjoy the day._

_Best,_

_Ryosuke Sunamura._

Ryo was one of his mother's oldest friends. He was a Pureblood wizard who worked as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, and he was perhaps Draco's best and only option for having _some_ sort of future.

After the poor choices he'd made during the war, no one wanted to hire him, not even Borgin & Burkes. His father's company was defunct, and Draco could think of nothing better than disappearing into the system and doing whatever it was that Unspeakables was sure with his extensive knowledge of dark magic, as well as his access to the equally-extensive Malfoy family Library, the Department would consider him an asset.

Draco scrawled out a quick, enthusiastic response and sent it off with his patient owl, Eomer. He smiled faintly as the large, onyx-colored bird took flight. He hoped that things would work out, especially with how horrible his year had been.

It was hard to believe that just this year, he'd not only had the Dark Lord living in his home, but he'd fought in a war and lost, the Dark Lord had been killed, his father had been imprisoned for life, the Ministry had placed him on parole with the intention of keeping an eye on him, and his mother had passed away. He just wanted _one_ good thing to look forward to that wasn't living alone in the Malfoy Manor and going to weekly parole meetings to update the Aurors on the nothing that he'd been up to.

He _needed_ this.

As Draco's eyes lowered from the open windows from which the owls winged in and out, he caught sight of Granger hurrying her way out of the Great Hall. She disappeared out the doors without glancing over her shoulder, her hair flying out behind her like a curtain of curls. Draco looked at the Red Weasel, seeing that he was still talking to Dean Thomas, but as the redhead leaned in towards his friend, he saw his cerulean eyes sliding further down the table towards Hannah Abbott. When she smiled and gave Weasley a small wave, Draco saw the telltale twinkle of lust in her own blue eyes.

He fought the urge to sneer. Granger's wizard was fucking at least one other witch and was ogling her friend right after she left the room, so he hoped she didn't think she'd picked a Seeker.

Draco sighed and shook his head. He must be losing his mind. He didn't care about Granger's relationship with her pet vermin. He wasn't _supposed_ to care.

He froze with his spoon poised halfway between his bowl and his mouth.

What would make Ron Weasley cheat on Hermione Granger, and why? Was she sleeping with her boyfriend, or wasn't she? If he was, was he still cheating on her in spite of it? If she wasn't sleeping with him and it meant enough to him to seek it elsewhere, how long before he was tired of waiting?

How long before Weasley simply left?

Draco was no friend to Granger, but there was no doubt in his mind that they had a connection. It was magical in nature and either she had placed it there with a curse during their Third Year, or something had happened that had tied them together. If it wasn't all in his head, then the dreams—and the nightmare he'd had that Summer—were real.

 _If_ it wasn't all in his head.

He severely hoped it was.

* * *

Draco meandered back to the Head common room before dinner.

He paused before the portrait, feeling almost shrunken under the shrewd gaze of his former Headmaster. Even though Dumbledore had made it clear that night that he did not blame Draco for his shortcomings and the impossible choices he'd been given, he still felt the guilt crippling him. He would never feel forgiven, and that was what he felt he deserved.

" _Apricus,"_ he whispered, averting his eyes from Dumbledore. The portrait hesitated, as though the elderly wizard wanted to say something, and then finally swung open.

Draco walked into the common room, doing a quick scan of the couches and the kitchenette. The lights were still as obnoxious as they were yesterday, and the floating ornaments were going to be the death of him. There was a mess of dirty dishes and he could see that down the hall, her dorm room door was closed with the light filtering out from underneath it.

He went to his bedroom and shut himself inside of it.

Draco withdrew his father's letter from his pocket, casting _engorgio_ on it to return it to normal size, and then walked over to a moderately-sized chest on his dresser top. He opened the lid, gazing down at the envelopes inside.

Lucius had been sending letters once a week since he was arrested. Draco had refused to read them, finding that it was easier to blame the person who had failed him than it was to blame the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord had never done anything other than be exactly who he presented himself to be—a monster.

But his father?

He had failed in every aspect of the one job that should have come the easiest to him: being a _father_. Lucius had turned Draco into a haunted shadow of his pitiful, arse-kissing self, and he'd made him believe that he was superior to people who were in fact intellectually and morally superior to himself. Which had then turned Draco into nothing more than a bully, and his blasted father had encouraged it.

Now that he knew better, Draco just wanted to finish school and get on with his life.

He knew some people were probably expecting or hoping for some form of apology from him, whether on his own behalf or Lucius'. But he felt like there was no point in apologizing to people when what he'd done was unforgivable. Not when Headmaster Dumbledore's death could be blamed on him. Not when he'd taken the Dark Mark into his arm just like the rest of his Death Eaters.

Just like his despicable father.

And then there was Granger. Granger, the person he'd probably hurt more than anyone else.

Because of Lucius, Draco had put every fiber he possessed within his body into making sure that he saw her as naught but scum beneath his shoe. He still remembered the first time he made her cry—when they were eleven. Draco remembered how wrong it made him feel, and how his father had then responded with letters of praise.

 _Good,_ Lucius had written. _The Dark Lord would be proud of you, son. Never let scum like that breathe without forgetting that their blood is dirty. If you need to teach her a more extensive lesson about her place, do so._

Back then, Draco remembered he'd smirked cruelly across the Great Hall at her unsuspecting, grinning face as she laughed and carried on with her friends. He felt sick when he thought about that. And he felt sick when he thought about the fact that he'd been dreaming about her and feeling her for five years. She didn't deserve to be treated like scum. The only people on this Earth that were scum were the people who subscribed to the idea that an eleven-year-old witch deserved to be put into a place she had no business being put into.

 _Draco_ was scum.

He admitted, he'd had a little crush on her in First Year, but his father put a pin in that as fast as possible when Draco couldn't keep his mouth shut about her. In Second Year, he'd attempted to do something to try and get in her good graces by sharing knowledge he had of the basilisk, but he'd chickened out, as he always did, and just watched with envy as other people developed friendships that he would never get the luxury of having.

If it weren't for his parole, he knew Professor McGonagall never would have agreed to putting Hermione Granger into a shared space with the person who'd made her life Hell since First Year. He knew that discussions had taken place in regard to his placement into the Head Boy role, and he knew that his position was largely decorative. It was a testament to Draco's own little "reign of terror" over the younger students that no one complained when he was announced as Head Boy.

But nothing would be able to disguise the fact that everyone knew the real reason why he was given the illustrious title: because Granger was there to keep him in line. To remind him that the only thing that stood between him and Azkaban was one negative report to McGonagall.

He shuddered as he looked at the letters in the small chest and placed his father's newest one inside.

Draco could still remember the day Voldemort had branded him with the familiar snake and skull tattoo that he wore hidden beneath his sleeves. He could still remember using his eyes to beg his father for help, pleading in silence with him to make the pain stop, but Lucius's face had only shown intense disappointment and disgust. In his eyes, Draco was weak and he always had been. Even though he withstood the pain of the Mark better than any previous Death Eater ever had.

He recalled the Dark Lord saving him for last, letting him watch his fellow Slytherin classmates—the ones who chose to throw in their lots with the side of dark—screaming in agony in the Malfoy Manor Drawing Room as they took their Marks.

Draco had been terrified, quivering in his shoes. His mother's hand on his lower back helped keep him strong, his only anchor in the emotional storm. He'd known that it was unavoidable—that it was a bit of a Christmas reminder to keep him on task with the cupboard, and to remind his father what happened when a task was failed.

It hadn't made the experience any less terrifying.

When his mother had passed, he'd looked to his father in the courtroom. Draco had beseeched him with another expression of mingling grief and accusation, and he gave him nothing. Nothing.

That was the last time he saw Lucius.

Draco closed the small box. He pushed it away atop the dresser, sighing with relief. His father's letters always felt as heavy as lead.

When he went back out into the common room, he decided he didn't feel up to going to dinner. He wasn't all that hungry and the couch was looking quite comfortable in spite of Granger's mess. He waved his wand to tidy up, as he usually did, stacking her books and papers in the center of the coffee table.

Merlin, living with her after the incident in the corridor was going to be more difficult than the time that he'd played a Quidditch game with a sprained wrist.

Draco sighed as he sent Granger's dishes floating to wash in the sink. He had no idea why she flipped her lid whenever he cleaned them, but he did not care one iota how she felt about it. For someone who was so meticulous about her schoolwork, he would have _thought_ she'd be the same about her living space.

He thought it was odd enough that she always seemed to use a _new_ dish for every snack, instead of cleaning and reusing the previous one, but the fact that she seemed to _want_ them to just sit there on the table forever was so bizarre. The first time he'd cleaned her dishes had nearly been the start of a whole new wizarding war.

" _If you touch my stuff again, I will hex your bollocks all the way to Timbuktu_!" he remembered her screaming at the top of her lungs. " _It doesn't matter if you think it's revolting; they're my things, and it's my choice what I do with them!"_

Her face had gone beet-red, her teeth bared in a snarl of vehemence as she hollered at him. She was so much shorter than him that it had felt comical to be berated by her, and he _almost_ felt bad about wanting to yell at her. But Draco wasn't in the business of shouting at witches, and that was the only useful thing he'd ever picked up from his good-for-nothing father.

Lately, however, Granger had been testing his resolve.

After changing out of his clothing and into a pair of black trackies and a white tee shirt, Draco sat down on the couch for a moment. He opened the book he'd brought, allowing himself to sink into the cushions before eventually lying down. There was once a time when he didn't feel so tired during the middle of the day, but not anymore. He just wanted to rest. When he was asleep, he didn't have to feel ashamed of all the things he'd done wrong.

He could just dream.

* * *

"Ronald, what I'm wearing is fine."

"Hermione, have you gone mental? It's shorter than a pair of _shorts_! Drop a quill, and you'll be showing everyone your knickers!"

" _Honestly!_ The hem touches my _fingertips_. It's not shorter than the dresses the women in London wear, and I won't allow you to assassinate my character as though I'm some common harlot on the streets. It's _just_ a _dress_!"

"Just a dress, then? Just a dress? A dress that _invites_ , Hermione. Your chest is—and your _legs."_

"Yes, Ron, I've got legs. I've got legs, and a bum, and tits, and I've even got a vagina. Shocking, I know. You're unbelievable. _Absolutely_ unbe—"

"So you're going out like that? You're just gonna . . . Walk around like some trussed-up slag again? Then you wouldn't mind if I treated you exactly the way you're wanting to be treated. Since that's how you're insisting on dressing."

Draco heard the angry voices coming from the hallway, digging holes into his sleep and rousing him from a deathlike slumber. It took him a moment to realize that the voices he was hearing belonged to Granger and the Weaselbee. He remained in his position, stretched out along the length of the couch with his ankles crossed and the book on his chest. He didn't know what was going on, but what he knew for certain was that Granger was so far from being a slag that if he woke up one day to find out she was, he might just think he was living in an alternate dimension.

When he heard a female gasp, a male grunt, and then the sounds of a bit of a struggle, it chased the last vestiges of Draco's sleep away.

Draco was not Granger's friend, but none of those sounds were acceptable.

"That— _that_ is _completely_ inappropriate, Ron!" Granger sounded white-hot with rage. " _Get_ your bloody hand away!"

"Why? You're fine with letting everyone look at you, but you can't even let your boyfriend touch you?" The Weaselbee scowled with mirthless amusement. "Well, that's lovely, innit?"

"Ronald Weasley, _what_ has gotten into you?"

Draco stood, holding back a waking yawn and combed his fingers through his sleep-ruffled hair. He turned to look down the hall. He disliked Granger, but he hated Weasley and always had. Hate trumped dislike.

The completely mismatched, unfortunate couple stood in front of Granger's dorm room door, the Weaselbee towering over the smaller witch with one hand clenched at his side and the other in the air between them. Granger had both of her hands wrapped around his wrist, and she was clenching her teeth as she pushed against it. Her arms shook and his didn't, so it was clear that she was fighting to keep him from touching her. She looked angrier than Draco had ever seen her.

Upon seeing the way her arms were about to give out, Draco was certain that he was livider than her.

The Weasel scoffed. "I'm starting to get frustrated, 'Mione. You keep saying over and over again that you're not ready and that you just need time, but it's been _months_. It's been months of excuses and deflection, and it doesn't make any _sense_. You're _eighteen,_ you're my _girlfriend,_ and I think we've waited long enough, don't you?"

Granger looked offended, and then her eyes slid past her boyfriend's upper arm. Draco, who had drifted towards the mouth of the hallway with his hands at his hips to stare without shame, caught her gaze.

He arched one eyebrow as if to say, " _Do you know what you're doing?"_

She immediately shut her mouth. Upon the faltering of her strength, Draco saw the Weasel surging forward to kiss her on the mouth. A muffled cry rang out.

Draco went over every reason why it was absurd for him to feel so incensed, but none of them seemed to be enough to check his ire. He was pretty sure he was going to deal with the Weaselbee the Muggle way in just a moment, and he wasn't going to have a single qualm about it.

"It's not so bad, Hermione, see?" the Weaselbee said between kisses to her jaw and neck.

The fact that the Weasel was carrying on like this when he had to have seen Draco asleep on the couch was unfathomable.

Granger's eyes widened to the point of ridiculousness as the Weasel pushed her against her bedroom door hard enough to rattle the wood on its hinges. Her hands came up to flail a bit before slapping against his chest as her gaze traveled a frantic path between the two wizards.

Draco could have left it alone. Just like the night of the Quidditch World Cup, he should have.

But he didn't want to.

The Weaselbee groaned in frustration, hands held against her pinned shoulders, and tilted his head back. " _Hermione,_ this is _fucking—"_

The five-year-long grey storm inside of Draco rose, snapping to attention. Within moments, he was standing behind the Weaselbee with his hand tangled in the red hair on the top of his thrown back head. He glowered down into his eyes, blazing silver meeting astonished blue, and snarled.

"This is fucking _what_ , Weasley? Care to finish your sentence in front of the whole class?"

The Weaselbee looked disoriented, as if he couldn't understand where he was, and then his face twisted in rage as he reached up and clawed at Draco's hold on him. Draco let him go but grabbed the shoulder of his jumper and yanked him backward, away from Granger. In one smooth movement, he turned his back to the slack-jawed witch and stepped halfway in front of her.

"She's a witch, Weaselbee, and while I know that's something that probably makes no sense to you, when she says she doesn't want to fuck you, typically it means she doesn't want to fuck you."

The Weasel stood up to his full height, the two men at eye level, and hissed, "Mind your own business, you tattooed freak. The fact that you're sharing a common room with my girlfriend is horrid enough. I don't want to actually have to speak to you."

"What a coincidence. I didn't want to have to speak to you, either. Yet here we are."

Granger moved forward, but Draco threw his arm out to the side to stop her. She gave him an incredulous look, no doubt as confused as he was to his anger, but he knew. He would be able to handle this nonsense better than she could.

"Tell me, Weasel," Draco said in a menacing tone. "Do I need to speak to you, or can you behave? Or I could always take points away from Gryffindor . . ."

" _Malfoy_!" Granger cried, but Draco's outstretched hand twitched in a firm, final movement to silence her.

Draco watched as Weasley reached for his back pocket and he tensed, waiting for the redheaded buffoon to draw his wand. His own was tucked into a pocket inside of his blazer and he would reach for it if need be, but not until the very last moment.

That was the downside of being on parole. If Draco pulled his wand on another wizard, even to defend the honor of a witch, all it would take is one word to the Ministry to tear what little opportunity for a future he had apart.

"You're a foul piece of work, Malfoy," the Weasel growled, but his hands remained at his sides. "What my witch and I do is _our_ business—"

"In the middle of our tiny shared common room?" Draco snorted. "Don't make me laugh. I was napping right there, in the open. I _heard_ you."

Weasley brandished his wand, taking a step closer and pressing it into Draco's personal space. "Soon, you can go right back to napping, can't you? When I _stupefy_ you the way I've been wanting to for seven _years!"_

Draco barely flinched, even as the pointed tip of the wand dug into the flesh of his throat. He held the Weaselbee's gaze.

"Both of you!" Granger cried, trying to push Draco's arm out of her way. "Stop it! You're acting like _children_."

Draco ignored her, curling his arm back to move her behind him. He was acting on pure instinct at this point, and instinct told him that in five seconds, he was going to throw away his entire future to punch one Ronald Weasley in the face.

"Or maybe I should give you a taste of your own medicine," Weasley went on to say. He jabbed the wand again. It hurt, but Draco remained still. "Maybe I should _crucio_ you and remind you about the real reason why you're here and not rotting in a cell with your father."

Granger tried to go around Draco again, so he repeated his earlier movement and held his arm outward to block her path.

He almost felt pity for her. She had no idea about her little boyfriend's sordid activities with Gregoria and Pansy, nor about the flirtatious looks he'd been sharing with her friend. Draco had no intentions of using it until it was absolutely necessary, but right now he felt _sorely_ tempted.

If it weren't for the fact that this tosser needed a lesson about consent, he might have set off the _bombarda_ spell and blurted it out.

Instead, Draco said, "You know nothing about me, Weaselbee, but in a few moments, you're going to know all that you need to. If a witch doesn't want you, then you step back. You don't force yourself on her in the hallway."

"Oh, come off it, ferret! I wasn't _forcing_ her to do anything!"

"No means no. Did they forget to teach that to you in your molehill of a home, or do you just ignore it to get what you want?"

"You fucking wanker."

Weaselbee whipped his wand back, but Granger wasn't having any of it. She ducked underneath Draco's arm and stood in the middle of them.

"Stop this _right now_!" she cried. "Right this instant! This is _beyond—_ "

Weasley grabbed her wrist, starting to pull her towards him with his glare fixed, but she ripped her arm out of his grasp.

"What, are you on _his_ side?" Weasley scowled with disgust. "Hermione, I'm not some _Death Eater_. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do."

Draco let out an incredulous laugh, but Granger spoke before he could. Her words were clipped in tone.

"You just did, Ronald, right ten minutes ago, and it's _not_ okay. But I am not discussing this with you until we're in private. I want you to wait outside for me."

"Oh, so you can do whatever it is you've been doing with _Malfoy,_ muggin' me off and making me look dense?" Weasley looked revolted as he jammed his wand into his pocket again. "What, did _he_ tell you it was okay to dress like a slag? Is _he_ the one you're spreading your legs for, if it isn't me? You like criminals covered in ink? You might as well start sending letters to Azkaban prisoners."

" _Ronald_!" Granger cried in outrage, hands going to her hips. "How _dare_ you talk about me like that? I don't know what's going on with you, but you—"

"I don't know what's going on with _you_!" He threw his hands up into the air, all but shouting down into her face as though Draco weren't even there. "Ever since this Summer, you've acted like a complete prude. The only reason why you could be so _against_ sleeping with me is because you're sleeping with someone else like a _bloody whore_!"

_This Summer?_

_What happened between them this Summer?_

Granger stumbled back, flinching under the loud onslaught of his words, and she stopped only when her back hit Draco's chest. On instinct, his hands came up to grip her shoulders.

The tension in the air. The slight tremble he felt in her body. The fact that a wizard was raising his voice to a witch with shoulders that were small enough to break with the right pressure.

Draco's storm stirred again.

Granger pulled herself out of his grasp, looking at him with wide eyes, and then stepped off to the side.

Draco rubbed his chin and breathed out a warning disguised as a laugh. "Get the fuck out of our common room. Right now."

"Our?" Weasley was getting redder. " _Our?_ "

" _Mine_. Get the fuck out of _my_ common room, before I lay your arse out."

The silence was thick, broken only by Granger's anxious breathing. The Weaselbee inhaled, his own eyes blazing, and Draco prepared himself for a fistfight right there in the hall.

Then, Granger sighed.

"Just go outside, Ron."

His mouth opened and closed in protest. "But—I—"

" _Go_ outside, Ronald!" Granger put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a look until he conceded.

The Weaselbee sneered one final time at Malfoy, his face flushed with anger, and then he stormed out into the corridor. Draco worried that the portrait might rip, so he took a couple steps down the hall after him. He stopped and turned back to Granger, giving her a look of disbelief.

"Are you losing your mind, or are you just dense? You let him talk to you like that?"

Her face was calm as she pushed her fingers along her hair to tousle the long curls. "Don't talk to me about losing my mind when you lose your shite over dirty dishes."

Draco barked a laugh. "Oh, that's hilarious, coming from the witch who can't stand when I touch those dishes _."_

"It's neither my fault nor my problem that you grew up using slavery to keep your house clean, and now you don't understand that sometimes, homes get a little dirty. Now, I thank you for—"

"Don't," he said with a disgusted look. "Don't do that."

"Don't what?"

"Don't thank me. Handle your business. Looks like you've got two choices. You either break it off, or you fuck him. And since you don't want to do the latter, it should be crystal clear."

She pursed her lips, angry. "It's not _your_ business."

"You _made_ it mybusiness when you carried on your lover's quarrel in the hallway."

She took a step toward him, eyes flashing. "Then if we're sharing business, would you care to tell me why you're always staring at me in the Great Hall?"

Draco wanted to laugh. She was like a damn firecracker. Before Weasley, she'd been like a mouse next to a lion. But here Draco was, and she was a lioness transformed, with a mane of flames and words that cut like claws. He tilted his head to the side and scrutinized her, crossing his arms.

"Why _aren't_ you sleeping with him?"

"I told you, it's not your business."

She started past him, but he moved backward. He unfolded one arm and held up a hand to the front of her shoulder before recrossing his arms.

"Why haven't you slept with him? He's your boyfriend, your wizard—you must love him, or feel some form of fancy. So, why not sleep with him?" He pushed the boundary. "Aren't you worried he might find what he's looking for in some other witch?"

She averted her eyes for a moment before they snapped back upward. "I _said_ it's not your sodding business, Malfoy. And fine, I won't thank you for what you did. I guess I was asking for it. Must be the dress."

He hadn't even thought to look at the catalyst to this whole situation. Arms still crossed, Draco's gaze swept down the length of her body.

 _Sweet Salazar_.

Granger wore a thigh-length black dress with long sleeves, a cinched waist, and a floaty short skirt. He'd never really looked at her body before, and now that he was, he could feel something turning in his abdomen. She was slim, a bit slimmer than she looked in her school uniform and her neck was long and lithe. Her kinky brown curls seemed a lot longer against the black backdrop, the ends tickling her waistline. Her legs were clad in sheer black panythose, and it was all he could do not to stare some more.

Witches typically didn't wear dresses like that, but the difference between Weasley and Draco was that if his witch were wearing something like that, he'd be happy about it.

Draco leaned forward a bit, his lips twisting into a smirk. He spoke in a murmur.

"Weasley's a complete tosser, Granger. If you were my date, and you were wearing that dress? I'd be spending my evening eye-fucking you, not berating you like a childish brute."

Her eyes widened. Draco's eyes searched her face. In the back of his mind, something nagged at him. Something shook and trembled, warning him that somehow and in some way, it was dangerous to be this close to her. To be talking to her like this. It was a tension that was as terrifying as it was enticing.

It was like she was a drug that he'd been denying himself access to for years and now, it was right in front of him.

"It's not your business," Granger repeated, the words coming out of clenched teeth.

"What the Hell is wrong with you?" Draco said. "Why are you letting some bloke walk all over you as though Potter would have won the war without you?"

"It's not," she hissed, eyes bright, "your _business_."

"Granger, wait. For fuck's sake. Quit trying to leave. I'm _talking_ to you."

She stared up at him, a crack showing in her armor—the armor he could now see wrapped around her. Her mouth opened as she searched for words. The tension increased, to the point where he almost wanted to be the first one to look away. Then, she faltered and lowered her eyes for a moment. She stared at his neck tattoos, and then finally looked past him at the portrait.

"I need to go. I . . . I hope you have a good evening."

Draco spun to face her as she walked past him. "Where?"

"To Hogsmeade with my wizard. What's it to you?"

Alarm bells rang in his head and he followed her out into the sitting room. " _What_? With . . . ? _Why_?"

She turned to glower at him. "Why do you care?"

"Granger, he just assaulted you in the hallway, and you want to go to Hogsmeade with him."

"Why do you _care_?"

Draco straightened his back. "I don't."

She stared at him for a second longer before she turned and picked her puffy Winter coat up off of the coat rack. She buttoned it up, her skirt peeking out beneath the hem and giving her a diminutive appearance.

Draco felt his mind racing. He didn't know why he was so invested in this situation, but when he thought about who he was now compared to who he was before the war, he knew that he couldn't let seven years of past get in the way of him making sure she wasn't attacked by a weasel outside in the snow. Could he really just sit in the Great Hall eating mutton or some equally silly thing, knowing that the Weasel was so disgruntled about things?

"I suppose we could deign to walk together, then," he said. "One moment."

"One mo—what?"

"Wait here." He walked towards his room.

"No! I—"

He glared at her over his shoulder, irritated. "I said _wait_."

She stared at him and said nothing more.

He left her there, entering his dorm room so he could put his clothes back on. Then, he returned. She was still standing by the portrait.

"Where are _you_ going?" she said.

"To Hogsmeade," Draco said as he pulled out his wand. His black peacoat came soaring off of the coat hook and he slipped his arms into it. He looked down at her while he adjusted his collar so that it was turned up.

"To _Hogsmeade_?"

"Yes, to _Hogsmeade_ ," he mocked. "Is it off limits to me? Am I not _allowed_ to go to Hogsmeade when you're there? Do you _own_ Hogsmeade? Can I not—"

"What are you trying to pull?" Her teeth were clenched, and she looked comical with her giant coat and small brown face peeking up at him from beneath all those curls.

"I was already going," he lied with effortless skill, carding his fingers back through his hair. He stepped up to the portrait and put his hand on it to push it open. He shot her an impatient look. "Come, witch, I don't have all night."

"But I'm going with Ron."

"And now I'm no longer allowed to walk down the same hill as the two of you? For someone who fought against the Dark Lord, you're _awfully_ exclusive."

"That's not what I . . ." She trailed off. A haughty look appeared on her face. "Very well. You can walk with us. But you will _keep_ your wand to yourself, and then you need to go off to do whatever dark things you have planned to do."

"Walk with you, wand to myself, dark things, plans. Got it."


	6. Chapter 6

**Apricity - Chapter Four**

"Oi! What's he doin' here, then?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at the Weaselbee. His reaction wasn't anything less or more than exactly what he expected, though with less sparks flying out of the end of his wand.

"I'm off to Hogsmeade," he said. "Although, Granger here has explained to me that I'm not allowed to go if you're going. Imagine my surprise, as I've always thought it was a town that was open to everyone."

Granger scowled and pushed past the both of them. "Oh, for Merlin's sake. That's not what I said. Let's just go."

The Weasel stood rooted to his spot. Draco gave him a lingering stare before he followed her, a slight spring to his step. When the redhead failed to come, Granger whirled around, her face shadowed with anger.

"Ron! Come _now_ , or I'll have this bloody date by myself!"

Weasley pressed his lips into a flat line, gathering the two sides of his coat together. It was a lot finer than any of the clothing their family had possessed in the years before the war. Draco couldn't resist saying something.

"Was that coat a donation, or have you been frittering away the spoils of war?"

The Weaselbee reached for his wand.

Granger quick-stepped forward, positioning herself in front of him with one hand on her hip. She used the other one to point up at him.

"Knock it off, Ronald. He's only walking down the hill."

He sneered. "What, he can't walk down the hill _before_ we do? Or after?"

Granger made a little noise of exasperation and then threw her hands up into the air. "I give up. _I'm_ walking down the hill _now._ Whoever wants to follow can do so. Otherwise, I'm starved and would like to get down to the Three Broomsticks to get my damn hamburger."

Draco held in a spurt of incredulous laughter. It was rather nice having the front row seat to someone else's dismantling at the words of Hermione Granger, rather than his own. He'd known Granger was snarky, but he supposed he'd never noticed due to always being on the brunt end of it.

He followed after her, sending the Weaselbee one final smirk, which he returned with a ferocious glare. They walked down the corridor, quite the motley crew as they passed the crowded Great Hall. Before they made it to the open doorway that led to the courtyard, Draco heard someone calling his name.

Theo dashed up, waving one arm with enthusiasm.

"Where are you lot off to?" he asked with a bright grin, pushing his wavy brown hair back. His pale white skin was flushed from running.

Draco shot him a pointed look. "Hogsmeade, remember?"

"To Hogsmeade?" Theo's brows twitched together. "On roast beef night?"

Draco, whose back was to Granger and the Weasel, lifted his chin and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Hogsmeade, _remember_?"

Theo stared at him for a second that felt like an hour, and then his face lit up with a big grin. "We are _so_ still on for that dinner, yeah? You said something about buying me whatever I wanted on the menu? Okay, cool. Let me go get my coat."

Theo dashed off towards the Eighth Year common room. Draco looked to Granger, who was looking down at the floor, lost in thought. The Weaselbee appeared irritated.

"D'you mind if we wait for him?" Draco asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. For the sake of his lie, he added, "He's who I was meant to go to Hogsmeade with."

Granger shrugged. "I don't mind if—"

"We shouldn't have to wait for _your_ mate, Malfoy!" the Weasel snarled, interrupting her with an enraged expression. "We're supposed to be going on a date, and you _weren't_ invited. There's no need for us to walk together."

"Don't be rude, Ronald," Granger said, frowning at him. "It wouldn't be polite to just leave Theo when we were already walking together."

"You're always _so_ polite, Hermione," Weasley said with a sarcastic tone, sneering at the open air in front of him. "Merlin's beard."

Draco frowned, his eyes lingering on the Weasel's. "Are you always this angry? That can't be good for your complexion, especially since it's already quite ruddy."

The redhead's hand snapped to his wand, but Granger elbowed him hard enough in the side to push the breath out of him with a quiet _oof_ noise. He turned his glare to her and then let out a growl of frustration.

"Fine!" he snarled. "We can wait."

"Stop bickering, both of you," Granger said. She looked at Draco. "You're Head Boy. Act like it."

"I'm back!" Theo returned, and he wore trousers, a blue-and-black plaid jacket with a black hood, and a black knit hat. "Come on, come on! Let's go."

Draco rolled his eyes and turned to sling his arm around Theo's neck for a moment, pulling him along with the group.

"Hello, Theo," Granger said. "How are you?"

"I'm well," he said with a polite smile. "So you're coming with us?"

" _No_!" the Weasel shouted, his voice ringing up to the vaulted castle ceilings. Students who were still filing into the Great Hall behind them looked at him in puzzlement, but he ignored them to clench his teeth like a wild animal. "I'd rather be _dead_ than share a table at the Broomsticks with a Death Eater."

Theo grimaced, but Draco's reply came lightning-fast.

"It's probably for the best," he said. "I don't fancy paying for all of the meals."

He walked ahead of them, stifling laughter against his knuckles as he heard the consternation behind him. Poking fun at the Weaselbee was too easy. He didn't care if it was juvenile—the oaf was so reactionary.

The four teens headed out into the renovated courtyard. Draco admired the newer Grecian pillars to himself, trying not to feel the chill that went through his body every time he walked past the spot where Potter killed the Dark Lord. He sidestepped the cobblestones, keeping his eyes trained forward in resolution.

"So, I gotta tell you this _really_ barmy thing that happened today." Theo jogged forward, turning to walk backwards in the snow and waving his hands about as he spoke. His face appeared animated, with his eyebrows wiggling and his eyes widening with every inflection of his tone.

Granger fell in-step beside Draco, her eyes fixed ahead of her as she stomped and crunched her way along. Draco didn't care where the Weaselbee was, but he assumed he was plodding along behind them with his tree trunk legs and boulder feet.

Draco glanced at Theo, who was hop-skipping backward, looking behind him to make sure he wasn't going to trip over anything. He arched an eyebrow.

"D'you need my permission to speak, or . . . ?"

Theo grinned. "Oh, right, yeah. No. Okay, so first like, it was Professor Werrin and he was . . ." He blinked and shook his head out. "Wait, no. Let me start over. Okay, okay, okay. So, you know how I have Defense Against the Dark Arts first period?"

Following Theo's stories was like trying to hold onto an eel with oily hands.

"Yes," Draco said.

"Right, so, Professor Werrin was showing us how to trick a fey into letting you go if you get like, trapped by one." Theo looked excited. "And so I was like, but what if you don't want the fey to let you go? Like, what if it's like, a really lush faerie with like," he gestured to the top of his head, "really nice hair, you know? And—"

Granger snorted. "A fey would never capture a human. That's why they have an entire section of the Auror Department at the Ministry dedicated to keeping the peace between Unseelie and Seelie fey and the wizarding world. After the first wizarding war, the Dark Lord's forces wiped so many species out that the fey royalty were all too happy to agree to a treaty."

"Well, like," Theo said in an awkward tone, still walking backward, "he was just teaching us for the sake of the curriculum. Just so we could . . . So we could have the information. He wasn't saying that we _would_ be captured by a fey. He just wanted to show us what to do in the instance that it happened."

"You must be joking," she said to Theo, a bit breathless as she traipsed along in the snow.

"Wha—how?"

"It would never happen. See, that's why Headmistress McGonagall should have hired Bill Weasley and _not_ Riley Werrin. Bill has an acute understanding of the way things are now, compared to the way they were centuries ago. Fey do not capture humans, witches, or wizards. Fey are harmless when left to their own devices, and they are an endangered species. For someone—a Professor, for that matter—to teach a classroom full of students a spell to use to help them _escape_ being _captured_ by one is not only irresponsible, but it's problematic. Just think of what that . . ."

Draco tuned her out, looking back over his shoulder. Weasley blundered along, a few yards back, muttering expletives under his angry breath. The Slytherin turned back to look at Granger, cutting her off.

"Look, Granger, we know you've got a hard-on for the disenfranchised, but can't you just let it go? And here I just thought we'd all have a pleasant walk together to town."

"I don't have a _hard-on_ for anything!" Granger hissed, her fists clenching. "Just because I _care_ about magical creatures doesn't mean I have some sort of . . . Strange obsession. Unlike the two of you, I read _extensively_ , and—"

" _What?"_ Draco gave a loud gasp, his head snapping down to look at her in horror. "You _read_?!"

Theo burst out laughing, and Granger raised her hand as if she were going to smack Draco's arm. She stopped herself, but still shared biting words with him.

"You're an arsehole, Malfoy!"

Draco clutched a hand to his chest as though he'd been stunned in the heart by an errant spell. "I'm an _arsehole_?! _Me_?! Neither possible nor probable."

"Salazar, Draco." Theo continued to guffaw, holding his stomach and slowing down his pace in the thick blanket of snow. "Stop. I'm dying."

She stomped her foot in the snow. "Stop laughing at his antics! Stop laughing at _me_! If he's the arsehole, then you're the prat! You're both a couple of absolute _gits_!"

Theo then fell into peals of wild laughter again, tears streaming down from his eyes to track down his cold-reddened cheeks. "You look like a marshmallow with two sticks in the bottom of it, Granger. I can't. I just can't with you."

"A _marshmallow?!"_ She stopped in her tracks. "I do _not_!"

The coat was ridiculously large on her, causing her already-slim legs to look like twigs by comparison. Draco looked down and noticed that her feet turned in quite a bit towards the center, and she was fidgeting with the fingernail of her left thumb. There were some darker brownish marks on the knuckles of her forefingers that looked somewhat singular and out of place. Like they didn't belong there—like someone had painted them onto her.

With that coat, she really did look like a marshmallow. A marshmallow with a cherry on top of it, since her face was so red with ire.

"You really do, though."

Theo held up a hand in offering. "A cute marshmallow? Like, with a cute face and . . . Yeah."

"A pigeon-toed one," Draco added, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side as if to appraise her.

Granger's voice was meek. "A marshmallow?"

Draco frowned. Why was she so hung up on such a harmless word?

Weasley stopped beside her. He glared at them.

"Sorry to interrupt your friendship circle," he spat, his shaggy crimson hair falling into his eyes. "But we've better get going."

"We've got as much right to walk down the hill as you," Draco drawled.

"So walk."

Weasley wrapped his hand around Granger's wrist, dragging her forward so that she stumbled and pitched forward. She yelped, dragging a line through the deep snow, and then fell onto her knees. Her wrist wrenched out of his grasp as gravity tugged her downward, but he just gave her a wry look.

"Get up off the ground," he said. "You should be more careful."

Really? Weasley was going to make a witch fall in the snow, wearing a nice outfit for their date, and then blame her for it?

Theo and Draco both moved forward toward her at the same time, but Draco got there first. He leaned down and took her by the elbows, surprised at how little resistance there was when he hauled her to her feet.

"Thank you," she said. "Er—well, you said not to thank you. But I don't really care, so thank you."

Across his mind's field of vision, he saw her the way he saw her in his dreams: smiling bright and merry through a haze of grey. Then, the image shifted and he saw darkness, hearing her screams echoing in his skull.

He wished he knew what the nightmare meant.

Draco let go of her arms as though she'd burned him, and he turned a dark look on her wizard.

"Do you make it a point to treat your witch like rubbish, or is that just your personality, Weaselbee?"

"What's it to you, Death Eater?" Weasley shot back.

"It was an accident," Granger said, dusting snow off of her coat and the small bit of her dress that peeked out below it.

"An accident." Theo said the word as if he were tasting it.

Draco turned and resumed walking down the hill. He didn't know what the Hell he was doing. He wasn't Granger's friend, and he wasn't about to get sent to Azkaban for defending her against her pet rodent. She won a damn war, for Salazar's sake. She could take care of herself. It was just a bit of snow.

And what if the only reason why he felt a sense of obligation towards her was because of something else?

What if she really _had cursed him?_

He heard their footsteps coming behind him as they reached the halfway mark and stepped onto the path. It had been charmed to remain clear even when the snow piled up on either side of the dirt. It was frozen, of course, so it crunched underfoot as they all walked towards the town.

"How often do you think those _accidents_ happen?" Theo asked in a mutter as he walked up to Draco's side.

"Who knows?"

Draco rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand, his eyes scanning the Hogwarts grounds. He could see Hagrid's old hut off in the distance, empty ever since the big brute went off to tame dragons for the year. With the Forbidden Forest's trees topped with snow, it looked like the inside of a snow globe.

He shot a quick glance backward, seeing that the Weaselbee was behind them, gaze on the ground as he walked. Granger had strayed to the back, her arms wrapped around herself with an expression of distaste on her face. He let his eyes linger for a moment.

"It's so bizarre," Theo went on to say. "They're not like, as in _love_ as everyone thinks they are. He's a right git, yeah?"

"Yeah." Draco turned back around to face the front. "He's always been, though."

"Does she know he's . . . You know . . . ?"

Draco side-eyed him, wondering if Theo knew because of Pansy, or because Weasley was an idiot. "Nah. I doubt it."

"Maybe we should like, tell her? Or something?"

Draco was silent, contemplating the purpose and the benefits. Telling her wouldn't erase their past, nor would it resolve the problems of their living situation. Telling her would gain him nothing because he had no personal stake in the matter.

"Not our place," Draco said. "And I don't care."

"Yeah, yeah. You're right, you're . . ." He trailed off, crossing his arms. "Draco, what if he like, hits her?"

Draco felt an uncomfortable chill in his body.

"What d'you suggest?" he said. "Hex him, body-bind him, and hide him in the Come and Go room?"

"No, no, no!" Theo waved his hands and then smacked Draco's arm. "Mate, _no_. I'm only saying that we—you're serious? No. We can't—no."

"There's not anything we can do, Nott. In case you've forgotten, we aren't their friends. You may have fought for the Order, but you're not exactly her best mate. And then there's me. The only reason why we share a common room is so she can keep an eye on me for McGonagall, who's keeping an eye on me for the Ministry."

"Hey. Granger's a friend to _me_. And you don't know for sure that she's been asked to do that. What if it's just a coincidence that you both were appointed as Heads?"

"Can you honestly say that it makes _any_ sense that I was appointed Head Boy? I barely attended class Seventh Year. And the years before that, I hardly paid attention to my marks. I was facing twenty years in Azkaban for what I . . ." He turned the conversation a bit. "Bottom line is that there's no point in interfering. I doubt Granger would stay with a bloke that's beating on her."

"What if _I_ care?" Theo gave him a pleading look. "Come on! Just walk beside her and ask her. I'll distract Weasley."

"And you can't talk to her because . . . Why?"

"Do _you_ want to distract him?"

Draco paused, narrowing his eyes at his friend. He would prefer not having to spend time chatting with the Red Weasel, and he rather liked _not_ being behind bars.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

" _Fine."_

Theo turned around and threw his hands up. "Weasley! You up to talk Quidditch? Who's your team?"

"Always, mate," Weasley said as Theo slung an arm around his neck and tugged him further down the hill.

Draco stopped, looking behind him to see Granger still lagging behind. She plodded along like a toddler in too-big of shoes, her curls fluttering behind her. The early evening sunlight glinted off of the wavy chocolate-brown strands, and her nose was tinted pink from the Winter cold. Her lips were parted, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth with exertion as she panted for breath. She looked up as she neared him. He saw her face take on her usual stoicism when she laid eyes on him.

"Malfoy," she greeted, like they hadn't walked three-quarters of the way down the hill together.

"Granger," he replied, falling in-step with her. "You walk slow."

"No, I don't." He could tell she was trying to control her breathing, like the walk was really taking it out of her. "You're all simply too tall."

"Or maybe you're too short."

She huffed. "Why are you walking beside me? Why are you even walking _with_ us?"

"I told you, I was already going to—"

"Cut the bollocks, Malfoy. I'm not daft."

"Maybe I was just bored."

"Or maybe you're just being a prat," she countered. "A suspicious prat that's trying to either hide something, or cause trouble."

Draco let out a laugh, watching Theo and Weasley conversing ahead of them. "I can assure you, I'm always trying to cause trouble."

"Then what are you trying to hide?"

"Nothing." He slipped his hands into the pockets of his black peacoat. "What are you going to do? Punch me again?"

The silence was oppressive, broken by the slow crunching of their feet on frozen dirt. Neither of them looked at the other. Draco knew she knew what he was talking about.

"I didn't _punch_ you _,"_ she said in a haughty tone. "It was more of a slap, if anything."

"My nose bled, Granger. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you cursed me."

She didn't speak and when Draco glanced down at her, he saw that her cheeks were as red as her nose. He felt his stomach jump with surprise and then turn with anger. Had his suspicions been correct? Had she cursed him with something that had been draining him for the past five years? If she had, what was the purpose?

What would he do about it?

"And if I'm to take your silence as an answer," Draco drawled, "then my next question would be why?"

"Tell me, O Prince of Slytherin. Why would I curse you in our _Third Year_?" Her tone was sardonic but her eyes were downcast. "Maybe I just really wanted to shut you up."

"I think you cursed me because you wanted to," he said, leaning down to lower his voice as they walked. "Because you're Hermione Granger, and you're used to doing whatever you want."

"I'm not . . ." Her voice faltered. He saw her fidgeting with her fingernails again. "I'm not a violent person, but you were a bully and I was sick of you. So, I hit you. I didn't curse you, but I _did_ want to do what I did. But I was thirteen, Malfoy. It was an accident."

"An accident." He stretched out the syllables the way Snape used to.

"Yes. An accident."

"Sort of like how your wizard dragging you about was an accident."

Silence. "Can you just fuck off?"

Draco felt her words like a lashing to the ears and he looked down at her in anger. He almost thought he might not have heard her correctly.

Her gaze had slid off to the side as though she were anxious. The expression was so out of place on her face that he felt his anger drain a bit.

"Right," he said. "Well, don't expect me to help you when he inevitably shows you how much of a daft tosser he is."

"I didn't ask for your help. I didn't ask for _anyone's_ help, and I certainly don't need it."

"Oh, _clearly_." A sour taste lingered in his mouth. "Your relationship is about as messy as the way you keep our living space, so I must say I'm unsurprised."

"How would you know me well enough to be surprised or unsurprised?" She sounded livid.

They were nearing the entrance to Hogsmeade, passing the Shrieking Shack. Fresh snow had begun to fall. Draco was reminded of the time during Third Year when he'd encountered her, Potter, and Weasley in this exact spot.

He never had figured out who threw the snowballs at him.

"Oh, I know you, Granger," he said, stopping with his hands still in his pockets. One strand of his hair fell forward and he didn't bother to push it back. "The person you put on display outside of our common room isn't the person you really are. The books and the studying and the swotty attitude is all just a disguise you wear to cover up that your life is as much of a mess as everyone else's."

She faced him, hands balled into fists at her sides. "You think my life's a mess just because I leave a few dishes around?"

"I think your life's a mess because you spend so much time trying to prove to everyone that you've got everything all figured out. You're Head Girl, Golden Girl, War Heroine." He sneered. "But it's all a lie. A façade. You spend hours in the bathroom doing Salazar-knows-what. You scream at me for cleaning your dishes—dishes that you'd be perfectly happy leaving about for days if it meant that you had control over what happened to them. You're Hermione fucking Granger and I watched your boyfriend pull you so hard that you fell over, and you said it was an accident. _I_ know you, Granger, but you're a bloody good actress."

Her eyes caught fire and blazed up at him. Theo and Weasley had disappeared around the bend of the path, into town. They were alone.

"You say that as if you don't have your own share of problems," she hissed, teeth bared. "You're not as perfect as you think, Malfoy."

"Oh, really?" he snarled. "And how's that?"

"You use sarcasm to cover up the fact that you're still just as much of a coward as you always were. You pick fights with me because I'm a girl, and because it makes you feel like a bigger person. You picked on me when we were younger because you didn't want to have to stop and think about the fact that you never had a chance to pick the right side."

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" He loomed over her. "If you're talking about my family, I'd ask you to mind your tongue. You know nothing about my family, and you know nothing about who I am."

Her face twisted with rage. "Your Dark Mark isn't as faded as you think. The only reason why you think _you_ know _me_ is because it makes you feel better about the fact that no matter how hard you try, you'll never make amends for your stupidity. For letting the Death Eaters into the castle and nearly putting a madman on the throne."

Draco was angry.

Very angry.

"That's rich, coming from the girl who bled on my Drawing Room floor became she wasn't smart enough to not get caught."

The fire in her eyes dimmed to embers.

Okay, that was too much. He didn't even like to think about that day, so why had he thought it would be a good idea to bring it up?

"Fuck," he said. "I'm . . . I didn't—"

"I didn't curse you, Malfoy. I just smacked you in the bloody face. I'll see you."

Draco watched her go, feeling the heaviness of his guilt weighing down on his heart.

He wasn't the person he used to be—he wasn't the person he'd been before the war. Before his mother's death, even. He hadn't meant to say that to Granger, yet he knew that he'd done it on purpose. After living in the same common room since September, tip-toeing around the issues of past and present, an explosion was bound to happen. He just hadn't expected it to affect him so much. He wasn't angry because she'd said those things to him, though.

It was because she was right.


	7. Chapter 7

**Apricity - Chapter Five**

Theo met Draco near the entrance arch to Hogsmeade.

"Where were you?" he asked. His hands were in his pockets and a puzzled expression was on his face. "Granger came tearing through here, and I was like, _whoa_ , _where the heck are you going?_ And she was like, _not_ interested in talking to me. Did something happen?"

 _Yes_ , Draco thought. _She absolutely murdered me with her words, so I lashed out and hit her harder._

"No," he said. "You ready to eat?"

"Ooh, can we go to Honeydukes first?" His eyes lit up as he looked up at Draco. "I _really_ want sugar quills."

"Those are terrible for your teeth," Draco muttered, pushing his hair back. He felt the snow melting in the strands the moment his fingers touched them.

"Good."

They walked through the town, their footsteps quiet. It was mostly empty, as Draco would expect it to be on a weeknight at dinner.

He wasa coward, and he always had been. He had no sense of moral compass when he was younger. When he was sixteen, he possessed only a strange double-sided need to protect his mother and gain prestige with the wizard he thought was going to win. He acted out of fear—always out of fear. It wasn't until this year that he started doing the things he wanted to do, rather than the things other people thought were best for him.

The worst thing of it all was that Granger knew him based upon his poor actions, and there was nothing he could do to reverse that. Every day, he regretted fixing that cupboard. He regretted it with every ounce of wizarding blood in his body. There were so many things that would have happened differently, and it hurt to think about them all.

But he wanted to believe she hadn't cursed him. She'd told him that she hadn't, and if that were true, then what happened to him during the Summer before Fourth Year?

Why did it only feel better the one time he'd kissed her?

The boys passed the Three Broomsticks and Draco glanced at the windows. He knew Granger and the Weaselbee were probably inside. He felt a painful twist in his stomach.

There was one thing she was wrong about. He didn't pick on Granger because she was a girl. He picked on her because it was easy, and because she infuriated him. He picked on her because she always rose to the challenge. She followed a pattern: if Draco cleaned her dishes, she yelled. It was that simple.

And when she talked to him, he felt less empty.

Theo held the door open to Honeydukes, and the familiar scent of sugar and cinnamon accosted Draco's nostrils. He glanced around at the green walls and shelves, taking in the various colored sweets.

His mother always asked Draco to send her her favorite Pink Coconut Ice. Cleaning them out of her drawers the night she died was like cleaning out pieces of his heart.

"Hi, Mrs. Flume!" Theo called as he pulled his hat off, waving to the elderly shopkeep. He turned to face Draco, walking backwards again. "So, what was all that?"

"What was all what?" Draco ran his fingers along Peppermint Toad labels, pretending to read them.

"The walk down the hill," Theo said, wriggling his fingers in the air and smirking. "The distraction of one Ron Weasley. Did you ask her?"

"Ask her what?"

Theo gave him a strange look. "Draco, the whole purpose of the distraction was to find out if he was like, you know—hurting her."

Draco felt embarrassment stop his heart. He'd gotten so wrapped up in his own frustrations that he'd forgotten to ask.

In the silence, Theo studied him and then said, "D'you fancy her, then?"

"No," Draco said, his eyes flicking to meet his with cold regard. "Don't be dense."

The color drained from Theo's face and he nodded. He gathered some Cauldron Cakes into his hands. "So, we won't talk about it. We'll just ignore it."

"Ignore what?"

"The fact that you fancy her."

Draco's hand tingled. He almost reached out to smack the back of Theo's head.

"I do not fancy her," he said through clenched teeth.

"You just care about the fact that her boyfriend is a complete wanker."

Draco felt like someone was sewing his mouth shut and trying to force words out at the same time. He exhaled through his nose, struggling to contain his frustration at the situation. He didn't know why he'd inserted himself into things today. He'd never done it before.

"Weasley _is_ a complete wanker," Draco muttered. He fingered the packaging of some other type of candy. He wasn't much of a sweets person—not anymore. "But I don't care about the fact that he's her boyfriend."

Theo added some more chocolates to his armful of candy. "But you had me pretend that we were already coming here tonight, so we could walk with them, because you don't care. Right."

Draco _hmph_ ed and followed along behind his best mate.

" _Ooh,_ d'you remember when we got these in Fourth Year and set them off in Trelawney's tea? I have no idea why she isn't failing you on principle this year. Okay, okay, look at this. Barmy, right? Who'd eat them? I'm getting three. _Draco_ , you've _got_ to try these. I heard they aid with your focus for like, Quidditch and stuff . . . _Salazar, I have got to get some of these."_

Draco tuned him out, staring at the Pink Coconut Ice. He could almost feel himself reaching out to gather a tub. He imagined he would ask for it to be gift wrapped, as he had always done. His mother liked nice things. Witches deserved nice things, his father had always told him, and so Draco had ensured that even her candy was presented to perfection.

"I think I should tell her."

Draco's thoughts dissipated and his attention focused on Theo. "Tell who what?"

"Granger." Theo was grabbing his sugar quills, an exorbitant amount of them. "About Weasley and Katie Bell."

Draco blinked as he followed him through the store to the register. "Katie Bell? I thought it was with . . . Gregoria Thistlewait?" _And Pansy and Hannah . . ._

Theo's eyebrows shot up. "Okay, so he's even more of a wanker than he was before. Did you see them, or something?"

Draco shook his head. "Pansy told me in class today. Where did you see him with Bell?"

"It was last night. In the Library."

"Weasley goes to the Library?"

"For that, apparently."

The Weasel was getting his rocks off with not one, not two, but _four_ witches at Hogwarts? Had he gone completely _mental_ , or was he living in the clouds above the aftermath of war? Did he find some sort of rush from playing both sides of the Quidditch field? He was no Seeker, and he was a shit Chaser. Even worse as a Keeper.

Draco had the urge to tell Granger, if only to watch him fumble the Bludger and lose the game.

But what would that achieve? What would be the purpose? Draco kept asking himself that question even as he made his decision.

"Don't tell her," he said when they got to the register.

"What? No. No! We can't just sit on that information, we—"

"Theo," he said in warning. "All it's going to do is cause problems. Just stay out of it."

Theo eyed him before he turned and began to chat with Mrs. Flume. She wore her waist-length grey hair in a braid that fell over the front of one shoulder, and her dress was bright blue. She was almost as talkative as Theo, if not more so, so Draco had no need to share his own words.

He wondered to himself again whether or not he should tell Granger about the Weasel. Why should he have any interest in her life? If he told her, then it would mean that he cared.

 _Selfish_.

"No Pink Coconut Ice this time, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Hm?" Draco looked up from the counter. His heart wrenched and his lungs constricted. "Oh . . . No, not this time."

"Shame," Mrs. Flume said, and then she offered him a beaming smile. "I ordered extra this year, just in case you decided to come back for the special Eighth Year."

Draco stared at her for a moment, wondering. Did she know that he was an ex-Death Eater? Did she know about his mother? She had to, if she read the _Prophet_.

Mrs. Flume's eyes twinkled. "Be sure to come back sometime soon, Mr. Malfoy. Honeydukes is always open to you, my boy."

Draco's heart clenched again and for the first time in a while, a genuine smile graced his features. He wasn't used to being treated this way—like he was just another eighteen-year-old wizard, not the person who spelled death for Professor Dumbledore. Like he mattered.

"Thank you, Mrs. Flume."

"Of course." She handed the bag to Theo after he set the galleons on the counter. "Here you are, dear."

"Thank you _so_ much!" Theo gushed, and then he set an extra couple of knuts down for her. "Cheers!"

The two of them waved their goodbyes to the woman, and then they headed back out into the brisk, cold air. Draco bit his lower lip, trying to make sense of his swirling emotions. Grief and confusion stuck out the most of all.

"Draco," Theo said in a quiet voice, placing a hand on Draco's chest to stop him from walking forward. He looked up at him with sincerity. "It's okay if you see Hermione as a friend, or even as an acquaintance. It's _okay_ if you like, _care_ about what happens to her."

Draco averted his eyes. "I don't care about her."

"Circe, Draco. You're insufferable. Here."

Draco watched as Theo reached into his goodie bag and pulled something out. He held it out to Draco, whose hand turned palm-up to receive it on instinct.

"What's this for?"

"For your not-a-friend-not-an-acquaintance, Granger." Theo grinned. "If there's one thing I know, it's the sentimental side of witches."

Draco held the cauldron cake awkwardly in his hand. He didn't want to _give_ anything to Granger, lest she think it was him trying to tell her he fancied her. Or worse: think he was acting guilty.

"Witches deserve nice things, Draco," Theo said, pulling his hood up onto the back of his head. He turned to cross the cobblestone street. Draco could almost hear his father's voice echoing in his head.

He stared at the cake. In all his years of knowing Granger—of bullying her and treating her like scum—this was the first year where he saw her as a witch. He couldn't imagine her deserving anything less than something nice.

Theo gave him a very serious look, one that Draco rarely saw on his face. "Granger deserves nice things like cauldron cakes from someone who cares what happens to her. She doesn't deserve to be pulled so hard that she falls down."

For the second time that day, someone was right.

Draco followed Theo across the street and into the Three Broomsticks. It was toasty and warm when they walked inside, and the smell of food already had Draco's stomach rumbling. He cast a casual glance around, seeing the wooden tables empty save for a table of merry wizards, a few Seventh Years he recognized from a couple of his classes drinking Butterbeer and giggling in the corner, and the Weaselbee and Granger somewhere near the center of the room.

Madam Rosmerta greeted them with a tight smile. "Mr. Nott. Mr. . . . Malfoy."

Ever since he was convicted of his crimes but sentenced to parole, any time he encountered anyone who didn't side with the Dark Lord, he got one of two reactions: forced politeness, or outright vitriol. He'd been kicked at, spat upon, had doors slammed in his face, and had been hollered at in the streets of Diagon Alley. At Hogwarts, everyone forced their politeness for fear of retribution from McGonagall since Draco wasn't the only ex-Death Eater walking the halls.

He was used to this treatment.

"Madam Rosmerta," Theo greeted. He gestured to Draco with his thumb. "May we get a table?"

She nodded, gaze lingering on Draco's neck tattoos. "Take your pick. Place is rather empty tonight. Butterbeers?"

"Firewhiskey," Draco said in a smooth voice, combing his fingers through his snow-damp hair. "For me."

"And you, Mr. Nott?"

"Uhh . . ." Theo looked at Draco and then nodded. "Yeah, I think I'll take a shot of Firewhiskey, too. Oh, and a couple of menus! I'm famished."

Theo and Draco chose a table near the door, and Draco sat down with his back to it. Theo plopped down across from him with a loud exhalation of excited breath, drumming his hands on the tabletop. Draco peered past his head.

Granger and Weasley sat on opposite sides of their table from each other. The Weaselbee was tucking into his food with zeal, and Granger was leaning forward over her plate with her elbows on the table, picking at her burger without talking.

What an unfortunate couple.

"You are _so_ buying me whatever I want."

Draco tore his gaze away from the other table and then looked at Theo. "You got Honeydukes, so this trip was mutually beneficial. A free meal was never agreed upon."

Theo pouted. "Okay, stingy. Then you can buy it for me because we're mates."

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn't stop himself from letting his lips twitch. "Fine. But you've got to tell me who you're seeing."

Theo shot him a look. "I'm not seeing anyone."

Madam Rosmerta came to give them their drinks and menus, and Draco took his shot almost immediately. The liquid burned in his throat and settled into the pit of his abdomen.

"You must be. You've been way to interested in whatever flame you think I'm holding for Granger. So, if you're not talking, I'm not paying."

"So who's paying, then?" Theo pulled a disgruntled face after he sipped some of his shot. "Yuck, I hate this."

"If you want it to be me, then tell me who you're trying to keep me from finding out about." Draco snatched the shot glass from him and knocked it back. "And if you hate it, then why did you order it?"

"I just wanted to be like you, big brother."

"Come off it."

Draco picked up his menu and Theo followed suit. As they perused the options, he looked up and across the room at Granger again. She was walking toward the bathroom, and her plate was empty. Weaselbee's plate was empty, too, but Draco wasn't surprised about that.

He was surprised that she had gone from a full plate of food to an empty one in less than five minutes. He almost regretted not seeing her chomping down on that gargantuan hamburger.

Weasley was sitting back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his shaggy-haired head, and his face was turned towards the Seventh Year witches in the corner. Their giggling had increased, and one was clearly looking right back at him.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

Gregoria Thistlewait.

As if on cue, Weasley leaned forward to fold his arms on the table, sending Thistlewait a look that only promised debauchery.

Draco snorted. Granger could return from the bathroom any moment, and Weasley was ogling the witch he was fucking on the side openly at their dinner table?

She could do better than that.

Theo began chattering on about the different food choices, how he'd tried them all, and his favorite things about each one. Then, while Draco was still watching, Weasley turned his head and looked around. His gaze settled on Draco's and a silent tension grew.

Draco arched one eyebrow, sending a pointed look towards the bathroom hallway, where Granger had disappeared into. Weasley's response, however, was not what Draco expected.

He smirked.

So the Red Weasel knew what he was doing. He knew he was a prat, and he didn't care. Weasley cared so little for Granger's feelings that he was content toeing the line, flirting with another witch while his girlfriend was in the bathroom.

Was it because he loved the feeling of getting away with it? Or was it because he thought he was so much better than Granger that she deserved to be lied to?

Something about that bothered Draco. She was Hermione Granger. He didn't know what type of wizard she deserved, but it certainly wasn't a cheating arsehole like Weasley.

That was fucked up.

Draco set his menu down and contemplated getting up from the table. He may not have been able to pull his wand without violating his parole, but he could throw his fist. The Weaselbee was huge in muscle, but what Draco lacked in musculature, he made up for in speed. He'd be able to punch the Weasel right in the center of the—

"I'm getting a damn burger," Theo scowled, slamming his menu down. The sound jolted Draco, drawing his gaze.

"Yeah?" Draco folded his menu shut. "I will, too."

"I'm so sick of the food at school," Theo grumbled. "I mean, it's _good_ , but it's not like, a _burger,_ yeah? Madam Rosmerta!"

Once their food had been ordered—with another wary expression from Madam Rosmerta sent in Draco's direction, clearly showing discomfort with the tattoos—Draco settled back into his seat with his hands in his lap. Theo began to rant about Professor Werrin again, finishing the tale he'd been trying to tell on the hill.

Draco's gaze lifted when Granger walked back from the bathroom. She had a bit of a dreamy expression on her face, almost like the one Luna Lovegood wore daily. Her skirt waved about her thighs, adding to her altogether lofty disposition.

Suddenly, she held the heel of her palm against the left side of her forehead. She took another couple of steps and then—

_Bam!_

She ran into a table, causing its legs to scrape against the floor. Staggering forward with a loud gasp that could be heard across the dining area, she clutched a hand to her thigh. She winced, limping back to the table. The Weaselbee said something to her, but otherwise made no other movements.

Draco felt his body tense. He almost wanted to . . . Go over there.

When Theo turned back around, he looked irritated.

"I don't know what she sees in him."

Draco started to speak, but Madam Rosmerta came by with their plates hovering in the air at the tip of her wand. She gave Draco another strained smile, refilled their glasses, and then was gone.

"I think he won her by default," Draco said, picking up his burger and taking a bite. "You fancy her, or something? Is that why you're not seeing anyone?"

"What? _What_?" A large amount of tomato and ketchup fell from Theo's burger as the shorter boy glared at him. "No. _No_! Stop."

Draco laughed, watching as Theo withdrew his wand and vanished the mess. He glanced over at Granger's table as Madam Rosmerta walked over to it, setting an ice cream sundae the size of his hand in front of her. He watched as she tucked into it, her leg shaking under the table as though she'd rather be anywhere but there. Weasley shifted in his seat in impatience, drumming his fingers on top of the table.

"Tell me what the Hell is going on," Theo said.

Draco blinked. "What?"

"This whole situation is like, so, so, so bizarre. You've done nothing but bicker and row with Granger all year, and now we're walking down the hill to Hogsmeade together, so you can watch her on her date with Weasley? There's an obvious dynamic, or whatever. So, what happened?"

Draco opened his mouth to speak, hesitating.

Behind Theo, Granger raised her hand to signal Madam Rosmerta, pointing at the menu and ordering something else. She smiled at the elder witch, and when she lowered her eyes back down, they caught Draco's and held his gaze. She was still smiling.

His heart skipped a beat.

When he looked at Theo again, his friend had his arms crossed over his chest. "Okay, you're telling me what's happened. Like, now. Right now."

Draco took another bite of his food, focused on his chips as he searched his mind for an answer to give him. He didn't want to just _tell_ him that he'd been dreaming about Granger for five years, especially since she'd said she hadn't cursed him.

He didn't know why the dreams were happening, and it was killing him.

"Nothing's happened," Draco said. He took another bite.

Theo held his burger with both hands. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

He took a bite of his own, nodding to himself. "Yep. You're lying."

"I'm _not_ lying."

"You're lying, but I'll let it slide. For now. But next time you need me to go with you to Hogsmeade to cover for you?" He pointed at him with one finger, still holding his burger. "It's gonna cost you."

"Oh, it's gonna cost me?" Draco drawled, setting his own burger down. He wanted to steer the conversation away from Granger. "Yeah, all right. I'm guessing it's gonna cost me this time, too."

"Yup."

They finished their meals in relative silence, Draco unable to stop himself from sneaking glances over at Granger's table. She was already almost done with her sundae, which was a miracle, since Draco still had half of his burger left. He couldn't believe she'd ordered food three times already.

Anyone with a pair of eyes could see that Weasley continued to look at the corner table where the lovely Gregoria was batting her eyelashes at him. It was sickening, if only because it was Weasley, and—Circe, could Granger pack it down. She didn't even seem to be getting a freeze in her brain.

"Have you heard back from your contact at the Ministry?" Theo asked. He'd finished his burger and was now dipping his chips into ketchup on his plate.

"Yes," Draco said, now watching Gregoria's reactions. "He's going to ask around, see if anyone is willing to take on an intern."

"Are you excited?"

"Excited?" Draco ate a chip, the taste of potato feeling muted on his tongue. "Of course I am, and hopeful. But things are different now, and the Malfoy name is a curse and not a key. There's a chance that nothing will come of it."

"Have you thought about what would happen—like, what you would _do_ if no one wanted to take you on?"

Draco shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his plate. He ate another chip. "No."

Theo was quiet. Then, "Draco, you can't seriously be this uncaring about your future. How does it make you feel?"

It terrified him.

"I feel fine."

Theo sighed, finishing the last bite. "Well, I'm done. I'll get Madam Rosmerta."

As they were getting their galleons out, Granger and Weasley both got up to leave. Granger held up a finger and then started toward the bathroom again.

"I'll just use the loo quickly," she called. "Before we go back."

Weasley sent her a sour look when she wasn't looking. "All right, but hurry. I need to get back to my room. I'll wait outside."

He left the restaurant just as the Seventh Year girls did, the Weasel holding the door open for them. They walked by him, giggling, and then he touched Gregoria's lower back through her coat. Draco nearly burst out laughing.

Weaselbee was a Gryffindor, all right, because that was _brave_.

Draco and Theo paid their tab and then got up, leaving out the door into the night. He saw the Seventh Year girls walking into Tomes and Scrolls across the street, the streetlight illuminating their bodies.

He frowned.

In the restaurant, there'd been five of them, but now, he only saw four.

Where was Gregoria Thistlewait?

"Hurry. You've got to hurry, Ria!"

Draco stopped when he heard the voices in the darkness, causing Theo to stumble against his back.

"Quickly, qui— _ah_ . . ."

Draco glanced behind himself and held up a finger for silence to Theo, whose face took on a rare serious expression. Together, the two of them crept down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Draco's back to the corner and his arm holding Theo back. They looked down the alleyway.

There was Weasley, his back to the wooden wall of the Three Broomsticks. Gregoria Thistlewait was on her knees before him, and she was doing something that one would have to be blind not to comprehend.

Granger was in the bathroom inside the restaurant, and Weasley was in the alley outside of it with another bird on her knees before him?

Draco now knew for certain that Granger was giving the Weaselbee absolutely nothing. He would not be surprised if they rarely snogged. He also knew for certain that he pitied Granger.

"What the fuck?" Draco whispered, and he looked down at Theo with wide, troubled eyes.

"That's it." Theo's face had darkened. "I'm telling her."

Draco felt unease twisting its way through his body. Something akin to panic. Fear. The fear of something that didn't quite make sense.

"You're _not_ telling her, Theo."

"Draco, it would hurt her—"

"It's going to hurt her worse to know," Draco growled in a low tone. "Let her live in bliss."

"I _need_ to—"

"No."

"But we can't just—"

"No _."_ Draco shook his head. "Listen to me, Theo. _No."_

Without a second thought, Draco whipped out his wand and cast a silent Disillusionment spell on Weasley and his rather enthusiastic companion. The last thing Granger needed to see—the last thing _anyone_ needed to see—was that. He wasn't her friend. He wasn't her acquaintance. But he wasn't interested in living a life of cruelty anymore.

_'Sometimes, it's better to shield from pain than to draw attention to it. Even though the wound still bleeds, it's better to die in peaceful ignorance than in shameful agony. Some things are better left in the shadows, my dragon.'_

"We'll wait for her by the gate," Draco said, shaking off the despair that tried to wrap itself around him at the memory of his mother's words. "And we'll tell her he left without her. We don't need to tell her because someone else likely will; he's not exactly subtle. Come."

He started to walk and Theo followed, but remained silent. Draco knew he was angry, but he didn't care. This time, Draco was the one who was right. If Granger found out that Weasley was this careless with her heart, she'd be devastated. Draco had caused her enough pain. He didn't want to cause her more.

As they made their way underneath the streetlights, Theo broke.

"You're so bloody infuriating, Draco."

Draco bristled but didn't turn around. "Why's that?"

"I know why you don't want me to tell her."

"Oh, _do_ presume to read my mind, mate."

"You just don't want me to tell her because you're afraid of what will happen when she's looking for someone to pick up the pieces," he hissed, following Draco down the sidewalk, towards the town entrance. "You're afraid that she'll come looking for you, and then you won't be able to stop yourself from doing what you do with every witch. Sweeping them off their brooms and then dropping them to the ground. You're afraid you'll be _worse_ than Weasley."

Draco saw red. He whipped around, gripped the fabric of Theo's coat, and slammed him up against the wall. He understood that it was Theo, that it was his best friend, but the storm inside of him was filling him to the brim. It was telling him that everything was going to fall apart and he was _livid._

"Shut up," he snarled. "Shut the fuck up, Theo. You don't know _anything._ You don't know a _damn_ thing."

Theo glared back at him, his eyes full of unshed angry tears.

Draco backed away, turning to continue on, but Theo ran ahead of him and whirled to face him, holding his forefingers up.

"Tell me the truth, then. Why are you so invested in Granger and Weasley? Why do you care how she finds out?"

"I _don't—"_

"You _do_ , or else you would let me tell her!"

"Why do you want to know?! Why can't you just . . ." Draco gasped, his lungs squeezing. "Just _leave it alone_!"

"Because I'm tired of you acting like you don't _feel_ anything!"

Draco knew he cared, but he didn't want to think about anything. He didn't want to have to face the fact that he'd shut himself down against anything and everything. Granger reminded him of his mother in so many ways.

He just couldn't pinpoint _why_.

" _Why,_ Draco _?!"_

Draco's panic exploded like a _confringo_ spell within him.

"Because I feel _guilty,_ all right? I feel fucking guilty for how badly I treated her when we were younger. I feel bad for tearing her down, because she wouldn't _be_ with that tosser if it weren't for me making her think she was worthless. If I . . ." He trailed off, overcome. "She's with him because I made all the wrong choices. I don't know why I feel that way. I just know that I fucking do."

"So, what? You're saying she would . . ." Theo's brow furrowed. "She would be with _you?"_

A flash of his father's sneering face crossed his mind.

The Summer of First Year.

The night his father discovered who the Granger family was.

" _And I suppose you thought you could hide it from me, didn't you? You thought I wouldn't look into it and find out?"_

Theo's facial expression softened. "Draco, you can't possibly be the reason why. It's _his_ fault. _He's_ the one who's hurting her. It's not your fault."

"It _is_ my fault!" Draco shouted. "Maybe not directly, but my actions when we were kids were my own. If I hadn't—maybe if things had been different—"

"If you live that way, you'll never be satisfied. We all wish things would have been different. That the Dark Lord had never returned. That the war had never happened. We all wish we could go back and do things a different way."

"It's _not_ the same." Draco hissed out his words, his eyes flashing with caged ire.

"We _need_ to _tell her_ ," Theo said, sounding desperate.

"It's not our business that the Weasel's cheating on her," Draco said, running a furious hand through his tousled hair. He glared through Theo, rather than at him. "But I plan to make it my business what happens after she does find out."

Theo started to speak, but his eyes widened at a point somewhere behind Draco's shoulder.

Granger stood behind him, a few meters back, and she was alone. The corners of her lips turned downward as her brows met in the middle. There were tears on her cheeks, but they didn't look fresh. She looked devastated, like her entire world was crumbling out from beneath her feet, which she swayed upon as though the revelation of her wizard's betrayal was enough to topple her. When she spoke, her voice came out as a whisper that seemed loud against the backdrop of the snow-covered ground.

"I thought Ron left. I thought he left me here, so I came to look for you two, and . . . Ron's cheating on me?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Apricity – Chapter Six**

The snow began to fall.

The flakes were light—the sort that Draco couldn't feel unless he brushed them with his fingertips to make them dissolve. The sort that melted like tears against his cheeks. All around them, adding to the thick blanket that already caressed the cobblestones. Though it was dark outside, the reflection of the moon against the snow caused the sky to look pinkish-grey. It felt like a different world.

Granger stood before them like a small animal illuminated by the streetlight. She looked like herself yet somehow, she looked like a person who couldn't claim the name Hermione Granger. A person who couldn't be the same Golden Girl that won the war.

The way she wrung her hands, the pigeon-toed way she stood, the way her feathered brows came together on her forehead to map out her anxiety.

It was out of character.

"Is Ron cheating on me?" she asked again, her voice strong and sure in spite of her stance.

Theo and Draco exchanged glances, the former giving Draco a look that told him it didn't matter what he wanted. She already knew and if she didn't, she was hurt anyway. So, Draco threw his hand up in resignation, shaking his head. Theo took a deep breath.

"Yes. Ron is . . . Yes. He is."

A blank look crossed Granger's face and she frowned, casting her gaze downward for a moment. She wrung her hands again, fingers twisting around her wrists and the backs of her palms. The silence felt as thick as the snow.

"With—with who? Do you know?" she asked.

Draco turned his face away. He wasn't going to say anything. It wasn't his business and he hadn't wanted to get involved. Somehow, he'd tricked himself into thinking he wanted to and now—standing here, watching her sway like a confused willow branch as she tried to make sense of everything—he was trapped.

"Does it matter?" Theo said. "All that matters is it's true. And—and if you don't believe us, well . . . Ask anyone."

"Anyone?" She sounded crestfallen.

"Yeah," Theo said, sounding the same. "He's not exactly—"

"Subtle," Draco muttered.

"Yeah." Theo sighed. "Look, if you want me to talk to him, then I will. I've got no problem—" Draco shot him a sharp, curious look but he continued, "—talking to him for you. You don't even have to say another word to him if you don't want to. I can—"

"I think she knows how to handle her business, Theo," Draco said, keeping his gaze trained upon his friend. "It's not as if it's ours, is it?"

A tense charge ramped up between them, like a swirling electrical storm, but Granger didn't seem to notice it.

"When did this happen?" she asked.

"Does it matter?" Draco drawled. "The Weasel's lived up to his namesake. Throw him in the rubbish bin and be done with it. Be glad you never gave him what he wanted."

At this, both Granger and Theo's gazes found him, and he realized he may have said too much.

Granger hung her head.

"Yes, I—I suppose I should just . . . Go back to the dorm and write him an owl," she said in a soft voice. "That way, I don't have to speak to him again."

"Good idea," Theo said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. "I know he's your friend—er, your best friend—whatever he is . . . but I'm sorry."

Granger nodded in a numb way. A far cry from the witch that had slung curses as dark as night into the faces of Death Eaters expecting jinxes, the Granger that stood before them looked lost. Like she didn't quite know what to do next. Draco watched her for a moment, watched her metaphorically folding in on herself, and he found it disturbing.

But then again she was hurt. It was understandable that she'd want to fall apart.

Why in front of them?

In front of _him_?

He thought back to Fourth Year, when he'd felt so ill and so discombobulated that he'd thought the only solution was a kiss. Where was _that_ girl? The witch who kissed him back and slapped him, and then never spoke of the incident again? The witch who—on the first day of Eighth Year—entered the Head common room and said, " _If you don't get on my bad side, I won't get on yours. The only way this is going to work this year is if you recognize and understand that we're as much enemies as we are friends. We're nothing to each other and as long as you mind your behavior, I won't become something to you. Do you understand?"_

This witch was not the witch he'd dreamt of.

This witch was the one he'd heard screaming not only in the nightmare, but also on his Drawing Room floor.

This witch—

Why did he want to go to her?

"Let's return to the castle," he said. "It won't do to stand out here in the cold. Especially if he . . ."

Theo shot him a look and picked up the sentence. "If it gets any colder, you'll freeze your nose off. We'll walk you back."

With one last scathing shared glance, the boys turned and started off through the snow. Draco wondered what was going through Theo's mind, and what his intentions were. Did he fancy Granger? Was this some sort of opportunity for him?

Something akin to discomfort twisted in the pit of his stomach, swirling like the storms that plagued his dreams.

The thought of Theo and Granger together was just as awful as the sight of her with Weasley. Theo was his best mate, but for Granger? He was just . . . Wrong. Granger would run him ragged. He wouldn't be able to keep up. Amongst the Golden Trio, she was the brains, and Draco knew better than anyone that a snake without its head was useless.

 _Fuck_.

Why did it _bother_ him so much?

"I wanted to be good enough."

Draco and Theo's footsteps crunched to a stop. Heart pounding, Draco was the first to turn back around. Granger still stood bathed in the glow of the streetlight, the lantern washing her in an orangish glow. She'd only made it three steps, it seemed, before stopping again. They were now yards apart, but the boys were close enough to hear her.

"Wh-what?" Theo said with a nervous laugh. "What are you talking about, Hermione?"

Draco side-eyed him at the usage of her first name, and then his hands found the pockets of his pea coat. He scrutinized Granger as she fidgeted and acted so unlike herself. He studied her as she crumbled.

"I've always wanted . . . To be good enough for everyone." She frowned, staring at the snow beneath her. "I've never wanted to be the best—I've always just wanted to be enough for you all. But it always seems like no matter what I do—what I learn, who I fight, who I love—it's not going to be enough. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm the one who's out of place in my own story. I wonder if I'm the side character in a narrative that belongs to someone else."

Theo took a step toward her, but Draco's hand shot out to stop him. He did, but not without some resistance.

Granger lifted her gaze from the snow and Draco's stomach did another turn.

Her eyes were full of tears.

"I knew Ron and I weren't getting along. I knew it wasn't possible for us to work after—when—" She let out a dejected sigh and looked down again. "I knew it wasn't a good match. But I've kept trying to make it work when it's like trying to hold fire in my hands. I'm not smart all the time. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I'm smart at all."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Draco said, gazing at her through the snowfall. "So maybe you're correct."

"Mate," Theo growled in warning.

Draco started to reply, but a sound escaping Granger's lips wrestled the words into nothingness. A panic rose inside of him.

"I just get tired sometimes," she said, her voice cracking. "And then I want to cry."

"So, cry," Draco said, because it was all he could think to say. He took his hand away from Theo's chest, satisfied that he understood his silent wish, and then he put it back into his pocket. "And we'll stand here with you while you do."

Granger looked up at him, her lower lip and chin quivering. The tears in her eyes glimmered like crystals as they overflowed and slipped down her cheeks one-by-one.

"Yeah," Theo said, adding the words with a smile. "Go ahead, and—and we'll be right here with you."

"Okay."

And then she began to weep.

Together, the three of them stood in the snow underneath the pinkish-grey sky as Granger let her emotions flow free. Granger held the hem of the front of her skirt, twisting the fabric in a stressed manner as she indulged in quiet sobs. Her curls fell forward to curtain the sides of her face, shrouding it from view, and her shoulders shook from more than just the freezing cold temperature.

Theo turned his head away, likely out of respectful Pureblood custom, but Draco found that no matter how much he knew he should . . . He couldn't look away. Something inside of him told him that to look away from her was to leave her lonely. They weren't friends, but after everything he'd put her through—everything that had happened—the least he could do was stand here with her.

Draco had seen her cry before, because of him, but they were eleven. And he knew she was a girl, and that girls tended to cry from time to time. However, Granger presented herself as a tough witch who took zero nonsense. Even during the encounter in the dorm before they'd walked to Hogsmeade, she hadn't seemed the least bit frightened. She'd just seemed angry.

But they weren't eleven anymore.

It was almost terrifying, and somewhat difficult to comprehend. It almost felt unreal—like a surreal lifelike version of one of his dreams. Except in his dreams of her, he wasn't there. He was just watching her life from afar.

But now, he was here.

He was here and for some reason, he felt like he could imagine himself crossing the distance to her. He could _see_ himself wrapping his arms around her. Which was strange, given that the only woman he'd ever embraced simply for the sake of comfort was his mother.

So, he watched her cry because it was all he could do. If Draco was good at something, it was giving what he could.

That was usually enough.

* * *

The snow-covered Hogwarts courtyard looked eerie at night.

"Are you going to be all right?" Theo asked from Granger's right side, his voice sounding odd and muted. They'd just finished trudging back up the hill with Draco on her left. It felt like they were emerging from a bubble of time that existed separate from the rest of the world.

"Of course," Granger said. "I think I had a feeling all along that something was going on. I guess I just didn't want to believe it could be true."

Draco was unsurprised. To everyone, it seemed, the members of the Golden Trio were perfection incarnate. They were angels with halos of gold who carried no sins on their backs. But Draco knew of Potter's sins, and he knew of Granger's. It stood to reason Weasley would have some, too.

"I think we all like to believe the best of our friends," Theo said, his gaze meeting Draco's over the top of her head. "But sometimes, we're wrong about them."

Draco tried not to grind his teeth together.

Theo was his best mate, but the fact remained that they'd fought on opposite sides of the war. When the Battle of Hogwarts ensued, Theo had gone against not only his parents, but the Dark Lord, and had revealed himself to be working with the Order all along. While Draco himself wished he could have done the same, that didn't mean that Theo didn't hold any animosity towards him.

He was beginning to wonder if there was something else going on.

"Apparently," she said in response to Theo's words. "I knew I was wrong, though. I knew it from the beginning. I just ignored it."

Draco knew what that was like—ignoring the worst so he could hope for the best. Pretending the ones he loved were the right ones to follow. Pretending his father was a good man, and someone to look up to. The only difference between Granger and himself was that Draco had given up on his father.

"So, what are you gonna do?" Theo asked.

Granger looked pensive for a moment, her hands in her pockets, too. "I'm not going to give him a second chance, if that's what you mean. I'm going to end things between us."

"It's for the best," Theo said, grimacing. "And like I said—I can talk to him for you."

Draco looked at Theo again, this time with suspicion. He wanted to tell him to come off it, but he kept his mouth sewn shut. If Theo wanted to play this sort of game, then he would.

"There's no reason to talk to him," Granger said, pulling Draco's attention. Her tone had drifted back to swot territory—clipped and almost haughty. "I will write to him. And given that he's who he is, he'll approach me himself. I can handle that. In any case, it's not your responsibility to speak to him. He's my—he was my wizard."

Draco's eyebrows shot up.

"Okay," Theo said, "but if you need me—let me know."

At this, Draco wanted to sneer. He didn't like to Occlude unless it was necessary, and right now, it felt necessary. He gathered his wits and built walls, until the indifference painted his face blank.

Theo was getting on his nerves.

"Thank you, Theo." Granger turned to him and held her arms out, giving Theo a surprising embrace. The top of her head tucked beneath his chin, she closed her eyes and exhaled in a way that showed she wasn't as all right as she was trying to sound. "You're a good friend."

Draco's fingers flexed in his pockets.

"Of course, Hermione." Theo hugged her back, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips. "And Weasley's a prat. He's got to be a complete idjit to let a witch like you go."

"Oh," Granger said, sounding a bit embarrassed as she stepped out of the circle of Theo's arms. "Well, he's not a complete idjit. I don't know if I could let the years we've spent together as friends fade, but it's clear that we aren't meant to be in a relationship. I wasn't what he wanted, and that's . . . Okay."

Draco stared at her in incredulity. So clinical, even when she was insecure. And insecurity didn't seem like the sort of dress she liked to don. It was so out of place on her person that he almost didn't recognize her.

Not that he knew her well enough to know if there was anything to recognize.

_And how the fuck could anyone not want her? She's . . ._

What?

She was . . . What?

He averted his eyes, feeling a bit dizzy.

"I hope you'll rethink that," Theo said, as if reading his mind. "He doesn't deserve you as a friend, let alone his witch."

"I don't think I will." She offered him a small smile. "But I can see why you think I should."

They left the courtyard and walked into the castle. Saying their good nights, Draco and Granger headed to the left and Theo to the right.

"Do me a favor, Hermione?"

Draco and Granger both stopped. Draco glanced back at his friend, but Granger turned completely around.

"Yes, Theo?"

"Promise me you won't go digging for information," he said, his expression concerned and pleading. "Just—promise me you'll move on. It's not—it's just not a good idea."

Granger gave him a short nod and then set off for the common room again.

The boys looked at each another one final time. Draco found that he wasn't quite sure what his friend was thinking. His expression was unreadable. However, after the small argument they'd had, he didn't want to be able to read it.

He was tired of hearing what Theo really thought about him.

"Night, mate," Theo said.

"Yeah," Draco murmured, and then he followed after Granger.

* * *

The Head common room felt darker than it probably should.

The Christmas lights weren't on, so the only source of light came from the window by the fireplace. The snowfall outside had increased to a gentle flurry, and the sky was now more grey than pink. The glass panes overlooked the Quidditch pitch, which appeared somewhat desolate with the snow covering the grass and the arches of the hoops.

Inside the common room, it was quiet as Granger took her coat off and hung it on the rack. She stood on tip-toe to reach the knob, and as she relaxed flat on her feet again, she sighed. Draco hung his coat up beside hers, inhaling the aroma of her perfume mixed with the scent of the outside, and their eyes met for a moment in the darkness.

"I know you said not to," she said softly, "but I'm going to thank you."

Draco shrugged one shoulder.

"I don't like to . . . Show that side of myself," she said, hugging her arms around herself. "Especially because I'm supposed to be the strong one."

"Supposed to be?" Draco lifted one eyebrow as he looked down at her. "No one's supposed to be anything other than themselves. I played that game for too long. All it got me was a trial, an incarcerated father, and a dead mother. Don't get caught in that trap."

He walked past her, knowing that the only thing keeping the grief at bay from his own harsh words was his Occlusion. A quick glance into the sitting room showed him that it was clean, but he'd left his book on the couch that evening. He went to grab it, knowing that the only way he was going to get his mind off of his mother now was to read himself to sleep.

A _clink_ behind him caught him off guard, stopping him before he could reach the couch.

Granger was at the small table beside the kitchenette, lifting two small plates and a bowl off of it. For some reason, she looked frailer than usual with the coat off—like crying had taken all of the air out of her and shrunk her down. Like she was someone who needed to be carried.

He didn't like it.

"Oh, I didn't see those earlier," he said of the dishes.

"I'll clean them," she said, the words tumbling out in a quick rush. "I'm sorry. I left them here earlier."

Draco watched her carry them to the sink and turn the water on. He wasn't sure which was more surprising: her washing her dishes by hand, or the fact that she hadn't told him to sod off and deal with it.

He entered the kitchenette, rolling the sleeves of his Oxford up as he went. It was difficult to see, but he made a guess and guessed right. He reached for the dish in her hand, the warm water spilling over his fingers as he did so. Typically, he used charms to set the dishes to washing, but right now, he didn't mind the thought of washing them by hand.

Anything, as long as she didn't do it.

"What are you—"

He cut her off. "Don't worry about it this time."

Her mouth gaped open. "But you _hate_ —"

"I _said_ ," he held her gaze, tilting his chin down, "don't worry about it."

He washed the plate with the sponge and liquid soap, ignoring the slimy feeling and grime that he was sure would stain his fingernails. Perhaps he was being dramatic, but yes—he did hate washing dishes. Which was why he hated that she left them all over the common room. But if there was one thing he'd learned from watching his mother and father's rows, it was that when a witch was upset, she just needed to go lie down.

"You don't have to do that," Granger said.

"To do what?" He set the plate on the dish rack, which Granger had brought with her from a weekend trip to Muggle London in September after he'd blown up on her for the first time about her messiness. His hands reached for the second plate.

She wrapped her hand over his fully to intercept him, fingers and thumb hooking around the sides of his palm beside the faucet. The moment she did, their wet skin touching, he felt his stomach lurch. Granger frowned, looking at their hands.

Draco didn't know what it was, but it felt like a storm had whipped up from the depths of his psyche to pummel him from all sides. It was different than anything he'd felt before now—different than the dreams, the weakness, the grey. It was too much.

His gaze snapped to hers.

"Drop my fucking hand."

She held tighter and glared up at him. He could see her eyes piercing through the dark.

"You don't have to tip-toe around me and treat me like glass just because I cried in front of you. It wasn't an invitation. It was a—"

"A gift?" He clenched his teeth, gripping the plate with his other hand so tight that it hurt his knuckles. His stomach was spinning and swirling, urging him to do something, _anything_ to relieve the ache inside of his heart. He didn't know what it was or why it was happening.

Why wasn't he pulling his _own_ hand away?

"A gift." She scoffed. "There's no part of me that's a reward, especially not my tears."

"Then what were you thanking Theo for? His presence?"

"Yes. And yours. I know kindness is a foreign concept to you, Malfoy, but when you do something kind, people thank you for it."

"Ah, yes. I'd almost forgotten about your superiority complex. I thought it was because you were a Gryffindor, but now I know it's just you."

He saw her gaze fall to his bare forearm, where he knew his Mark lay hidden amongst a sea of other tattoos like a clover in the grass.

"And I'd almost forgotten who _you_ really are. Tell me . . . If he called, would you still come?"

Her words lanced through him, right to his core.

"There she is," he snarled, turning his hand in her own and wrapping his own fingers around it. She let out a cry as he yanked on it, bringing her up against his side. The side of her head brushed against his chest—she was that short. "The hissing, spitting kneazle I know so well."

The storm ebbed a fraction.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped. "I can't cry because it doesn't fit the narrative? It doesn't remind you of the cold ice witch you hate so much? Afraid it'll make you feel something like compassion for me?"

"You can cry. Just don't thank me for standing and watching you do it. I don't need the charity of your gratitude for doing what the fuck I want."

She laced her fingers with his own. As much as he knew it was because she was challenging him, arguing and bickering because she was offended and angry—he liked it. He liked the feeling of her hand in his own and he wanted to know what it felt like to hold it all the time.

"Why? Do you like it, or something?" she said, tone snide. "Do you like watching me cry like I did when we were kids?"

He narrowed his eyes at her and before he could stop himself, he had surprised her by ripping his hand out of her own, covering the back of it, and twining their fingers with his on top. He slammed her palm on the front edge of the counter.

"I don't like watching you cry, Granger. I like watching you falling apart. And I like watching you fall apart because it means you're just like the rest of us. You're not perfect. Just because Weasley couldn't accept your imperfection doesn't mean no one else will. It doesn't matter if you weren't good enough for him. There's other people who are fine with you just the way you are. Stop trying to fucking hold it together and be perfect all the time. You certainly don't need to do it for me."

Without looking at him or responding with words, she burst out into tears. Sobbing, right there at the kitchen sink with the water running and his hand pinning hers. He felt her body leaning against his side, trembling. He didn't know what he she do about that, as he'd never experienced it before, but he knew that he didn't mind it.

It didn't feel uncomfortable.

It didn't feel uncomfortable, and there was something familiar in the scent that hovered around her hair. He could smell the floral fragrance of her shampoo just as well as he could smell the Winter in the melted snowflakes in her damp curls. The weight of her pressing into him felt as welcoming as he imagined it would feel to embrace his mother again.

He wished he could do that again.

"See?" he murmured above her head as he set the still-dirty second plate down in the sink. His left arm lifted and, with some hesitation, slipped around her waist. His fingers curled around her hip, feeling its sharpness through her dress, and it felt right. He didn't know why. It just did. "Cry. Just don't lose yourself in the process."

"I'm sorry," she said between gasps. "I'm so sorry."

"Hush," he said. "Do as I say, and hush."

Her sob paused, the sound suspended in the air as she took a gasping breath. Then, the silence burst and she fell into her emotions again. Sagging against him, Draco wrapped his arm more tightly around her, holding her upright. The feeling of her against him was nothing compared to the way the sobs were wrenching their way out of her gut.

It reminded him of the day he'd lost Narcissa.

Draco clenched his teeth and turned his face up to the ceiling for a second. He fought his own emotions, feeling overwhelmed and despaired.

Occlusion was very necessary.

Granger cried until the water ran cold, and then she jumped away from him.

"I'm sorry," she said, frantic as she scrubbed at her face. "I shouldn't be so familiar with you. Thank goodness it's dark."

He could still see her face, tracked with moisture, but he didn't tell her that. He simply returned to washing the plate.

She went on, "Thank you for being there for me, and you're right. I won't let it consume me, and I'll handle my business better. You and Theo are both good friends."

Draco looked at her in surprise, a lock of his hair falling forward that he couldn't touch due to his wet hands. Of all the things he was to her, he didn't think she considered him a friend. All they ever did was fight.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, friends? He didn't know how he felt about that.

"Good night, Malfoy," she said, and then she left the kitchenette.

Draco finished the two dishes and then used his wand to wash and dry his hands, knowing that he could have just used the charm to wash them anyway. Then, as he was heading towards the hallway, he remembered the cauldron cake that Theo had given him. It was still in his coat pocket. He jogged back over to it, calling her surname as he did so.

Her bedroom door opened as he was entering the hallway again. Her eyes were puffy from her earlier crying and the tip of her nose was dark pink. She still had her dress on, but she'd removed her nylons and her legs were bare. She'd piled her curls on top of her head into two separate buns, but a couple of stray ones framed her face. Her face, with bronze skin that looked as soft as gardenia petals, and lips that were pouty and full.

 _Salazar's wand_ , he thought, nearly losing his train of thought. _She looks—_

"What did you need?" she asked, honey-brown eyes wide.

— _cute as fuck._

"Tell me, did the Weaselbee ever buy you gifts?" he asked, trying to wave away his opinion as to her attractiveness.

She opened her mouth, averted her eyes in thought, and then frowned.

Draco held the sweet out to her. She held out her hand so he could place it in her palm. He did, and the tips of his fingers brushed against her skin. An answering whip of feeling lashed through his abdomen.

Interesting.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Witches deserve nice things," he said, echoing Theo in spite of his earlier irritation at his friend. "Remember that when you're writing to the Weaselbee and trying to keep the friendship."

Without further conversation, he took a couple of steps backward. He scrutinized the expression on her face as she stared first at the cauldron cake, then up at him. He turned and went into his bedroom.

A lot had happened today. A lot that didn't make sense. The encounter with Ron, the banter with Theo, and the strange intimacy of standing with Granger while she cried. Twice. It was all strange and weird and bizarre and just . . .

Why did he feel so exhausted?

Later, as his head relaxed into the softness of his pillows and he stared at the wall separating their dorm rooms, he realized what he'd seen there in her eyes as she gazed upon the cake.

Terror.


	9. Chapter 9

** Apricity – Chapter Seven **

Snow fell Sunday night.

Hogwarts awoke to there being so much of it piled in the windows that darkness prevailed in the castle, even in the morning. So many students slept through their wand alarms that the first class of the day was cancelled by default.

This seemed to caused Granger anxiety, because when Draco finally stumbled out into the hall to use the loo, he could hear her in the sitting room. The sounds of her exerted pants reached his ears in the dim lighting of the hallway and for a moment, he wondered if it was still nighttime.

What in Salazar's name was she _doing_?

He peered around the edge of the wall, into the room.

Her back was to him, clad in naught but a navy blue camisole with thin straps. She wore a pair of grey cotton shorts that were shorter than any he'd ever seen before, and she was exercising. Alternating between running in place and dropping down to one knee, her curls bounced free and dripped with sweat.

" _44 . . . 45 . . . 46 . . . 47 . . ."_

His gaze traveled the length of her body and he wondered why she was exercising when she looked to be in shape, but then again he supposed exercise was good for one's health. It certainly was when he'd played Quidditch.

Was this what she did in the mornings before he woke? Or at night? He knew it wasn't nighttime, since he could now see the windows and the morning light behind the packed-in snow. Was she just unaware of the time? Did she think he was already at class?

Why would she skive off her first class period of the day to _exercise_?

Pushing his fingers into his messy sleep-hair, he stifled a yawn and watched her until she collapsed on the floor. It wasn't until she was choking and gasping for air on her hands and knees, still unaware of his presence, that he realized she'd counted to one hundred.

How was it that she could make it to one hundred knee-drops, or whatever they were, but she'd run into a table at the Three Broomsticks?

She lifted her head and glanced over.

Draco blanched, backing away as quick as he could. Somehow, he felt he wasn't meant to see any of it, so he hurried to the loo and closed the door. By the time he finished showering for the day, she was back in her bedroom.

The weekend had passed much less eventfully than Friday evening had. Draco spent most of his time in his dorm room studying for Muggle Studies. He was struggling quite a bit with it and since he wasn't exactly getting along with Theo right now, he didn't feel like spending time with him and asking for help. The only times Draco left his bedroom were to make food in the kitchenette, and even that he'd done with a wand. He hadn't bothered to go down to the Great Hall.

There were no updates on the Granger-Weaselbee debacle. At least, no dramatic ones. She'd been gone from the common room most of the weekend and Draco had only seen her once. It was Sunday when he was cleaning up after her Saturday mess with a disgruntled expression on his face.

" _I talked to him,"_ she'd said as she breezed through on her way to her bedroom. Draco had continued to clean. Then she was leaving the common room again, saying over her shoulder, " _If he comes by, don't open the door."_

 _Unsurprising_ , he remembered thinking. _The oaf has the brain of a troll and the temper of an angry werewolf._

Weasley never came by, but Granger returned later that night with two shopping bags from Honeydukes. Draco had been on the couch reading with his feet pulled up onto the seat with him, clad in the same black trackies and grey tee shirt he'd been wearing all weekend.

" _Hey_ ," she'd said, her tone chipper.

He'd given her a strange look and replied, " _Hey_."

But she'd already entered her bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, she'd gone into the bathroom and hadn't come out for forty-five minutes. When she did, she walked into the kitchenette for a glass of water.

" _Hey_ ," Draco had said, tone pointed. It was irritating that she was in there for so long, and it wasn't like he wanted to know what she'd been _doing_ in the loo, but it was getting a bit ridiculous. What if he'd needed to use it? He was sick of having to leave his own dorm all the time to use the boys' loo when he was supposed to have his own.

She walked past, the glass of water in one hand.

" _Hey_ ," he'd said again.

Granger had drifted to a Luna Lovegood stop and turned to look at him. Her eyes were a bit unfocused and watery, like she'd been crying again. This disturbed him for a moment. Had Weasley said something to her? Or was it just lingering from Friday?

" _Hey_ ," she'd said, slow and dreamy, before turning and going back to her bedroom again.

He'd kept reading for a total of fifteen more minutes before she was in the bathroom again.

For an hour.

When he'd had enough, Draco had tossed his book down onto the couch cushion. He'd walked up to the door and knocked. Silence. He paused and then with a grimace, pressed his ear to the door.

He'd known it was dodgy to do that, to listen to the loo when a witch was in there, but this made a total of one hour and forty-five minutes of loo usage. If she was crying again, why didn't she do it in her dorm room? And if she wasn't feeling well, then what if she needed help?

At that thought, Draco had backed away from the door.

He was not the type to _help_.

He'd gone back to the couch to try and read some more, but found that the words were dancing in front of his vision. Things were only made worse when she finally exited the bathroom and went back to her bedroom. When she came out again, she was wearing a pair of those tight cotton trousers and a hooded jumper with her curls atop her head again.

He stared at her.

"D _o you mind if I run back and forth in the hallway_?" she'd asked, jabbing at the hallway with her thumb. _"Normally, I run outside, but with the snow . ._ ."

Draco had given her the most perturbed expression he'd ever given someone, but had shrugged.

" _D'you need my permission?"_ he'd said.

" _Well, it would be rude for me to . . ."_ She'd then scowled. " _You know what? I don't know why I even bothered to ask you. I'll just do it in my room."_

And then she'd marched into her bedroom and slammed her door shut. He didn't see her for the rest of the night.

Now, it was Monday, and he'd just seen her exercising in the sitting room. Did he think it was weird? Obviously. Was he starting to think she was mental? Yeah.

Did he mind seeing a witch clad in so little?

No comment.

* * *

Pansy already knew Draco was cross with Theo.

He didn't know how she figured it out from the limited amount of information that Theo had graced her with, but she had. She didn't understand it, and—after chatting his ear off about her trip to Diagon Alley with Zabini that weekend, as well as their spontaneous walk through Knockturn Alley—she questioned him like a member of the Wizengamot all through Charms. Through her excessive needling, she was able to get more information out of him to piece it all together.

"Come on," she was hissing as Flitwick finished up his lecture for the day. "You can't have me believe that the two of you _willingly_ stood there and watched Miss Golden Swot snivel like a little girl in her nappies, all because I fucked Ron Weasley?"

A few rows ahead, Draco saw Granger's head turn. He didn't know if she'd heard, but he knew that she couldn't have without everyone else turning around, too.

"Pansy," Draco snarled below his breath, his gaze heated as it fell upon his friend. "If you don't shut your _fucking_ mouth—"

"You'll what? Make me cry so you can stand there with me in the _snow_?"

"Bitch," he spat. "You're such a bitch."

Pansy smirked, crossed her arms over her chest, and then crossed one leg over the other. It showed through the open front of her robes. "At least I'm predictable. You, on the other hand, have surprised me. So which of you is it that fancies her? You or Theo?"

" _Shut the fuck up_!" Draco snapped, struggling to control the volume of his voice. "Pansy. Come _off_ it."

"Don't tell me to shut up—"

"I _will_ tell you to shut up! I _will_ tell you to—"

They went back and forth, hissing like snakes at one another. They stopped only when students began to stand, scraping their chairs back. Pansy kept going, her angry words being spat into his ear as he slammed his parchment and quills back into his satchel.

"I don't know what it is you see in her to be friends with her, or to—to _care_ what happens to her or why she would be crying. Her boyfriend cheated on her. So fucking what? Let her cry about it. Let her snivel. Who the fuck _cares_ , Draco?"

"Maybe I care. You ever think about that?"

"You're—" She lowered her voice as they walked closer to the students filing out of the classroom. Granger was already gone. "You're lying."

"I'm not. I care, and you're just going to have to figure out how to cope."

She sneered. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were boffing the help. What did you do? Get lost in her cunt one cold night?"

Pansy was infuriating. She was absolutelyinfuriating. He couldn't stand her whiny, nasal voice and her inhuman blue eyes and the stupid way she smacked her lips when she talked. She never knew when to quit.

He just needed to shut her up.

"And what if I did?" he said, whirling on her in the corridor. He knew it was a lie, and a poor one at that, but he didn't care. It was the only thing he could think of in the heat of the moment.

Pansy's jaw dropped, her face contorting in revulsion and horror. "You didn't."

"And what . . ." He loomed over her, eyebrows twitching. ". . . If I _did_?"

Pansy's eyes flashed. "All that time you two spend together, holed up in the Head common room. I'm not surprised she's a slag. She and Weasley cheating on each other, yet she had the nerve to _weep_?"

Draco kept his face as impassive as he could manage. "Just fucking shut _up_ , Pansy, and _leave it_."

"No! I won't leave it, come off it, or do anything of the sort." She grabbed his wrist to stop him, fingers closing over the fabric of his blazer cuff. "It's Granger we're talking about here. _Hermione_ Granger. She's a Mudblood, for Salazar's sake! I know you're a man and you'll dip your wick in any pot of wax you see, but it's _Granger_!"

Draco gripped the strap of his satchel with one hand, and he used the other to rub his chin. The storm of grey inside of him was starting to swirl darker.

He didn't like hearing that word anymore.

"Don't call her that," he said, casting Pansy a disdainful glance. "And why do you care who I fuck? You can sleep with the Weaselbee, yet if I sleep with Granger, it's a problem?"

Pansy sliced a hand in the air. "Of course it's a problem! What would your _father_ say?"

Draco felt his rage rising. He didn't want to talk, think, or hear about Lucius.

"Pansy, if you don't—"

"Malfoy! Hey, Malfoy!"

The tapping of footsteps on the stone pulled Draco to look behind him. Granger was in the process of running back to where he was, her textbook clutched against her chest and her cheeks flushed from the jog. She wore her robes open over a maroon dress with a hem that floated around her thighs, opaque black nylons, and combat boots. Her curls—normally big and fluffy around her arms—were pulled up into two buns at the top of her head, with a few furls hanging down by her ears.

"What, Granger?" he said, the stress straining his voice. He kept himself positioned in front of Pansy, as if it could help keep the two witches from seeing one another. He doubted Granger cared, but Pansy didn't need to interact with her right now. It was a bad idea.

"I wanted to see if you wanted to help me set up the Prefects' Holiday Luncheon in McGonagall's classroom," she said, the smile on her face as bright as the sun. "Oh. Hello, Pansy."

Pansy didn't respond to her. Instead, she sashayed up to Granger and pushed her face close to hers. Granger didn't flinch, choosing instead to raise one eyebrow in puzzlement.

"You could do better than her, Draco," Pansy said, biting the words out. "I don't see how you could be friends with her, let alone—"

Draco interjected. "Leave, Pansy."

After one last scathing glare sent in Draco's direction, Pansy walked past.

"Wow," Granger said. "Is she always in such a bad mood?"

"Yes," Draco muttered, pushing his hair back. "But she's one of my best friends, so I put up with it."

"Well, we all have to put up with poisonous people from time to time," Granger said. "If anyone knows that, it's me. So, are you free to help me?"

Draco swallowed, feeling his heart begin to race. His gaze slid past her, where he could see that Pansy had stopped walking. She turned to shoot them a glare so vitriolic that it made Draco's palms sweat.

She'd heard her.

"Oh, fuck," he whispered.

Granger turned, and Pansy was there beside her. The ravenette looked like she was seconds away from bursting into flames.

" _Poisonous people_? And what makes you think you have the right to decide who's a bad person, and who isn't? You've been sitting on a golden throne for far too long, Granger. You wouldn't know poison if you drank it in your tea."

Draco ran both of his hands down his face, stifling a groan. Pansy was _insufferable_ , and so, so dramatic.

But Granger was the Brightest Witch of Her Age and if there was one witch she could tackle, it was Pansy Parkinson.

Without shying away, backing down, or crumbling, Granger merely moved her gaze across the planes of Pansy's face. She studied her like she was an open textbook, all without ever dropping the book she hugged in her arms. The tension in the air had gotten thicker—to the point where Draco thought he might want to grab both witches by the shoulder and pull them apart.

"Pansy Parkinson," Granger said. "How's your mother?"

Draco's eyes widened in stages as he remembered that Pansy's mother was in Azkaban.

For the rest of her life.

"Meet me in the Room of Requirement if you have the free time to help me, Malfoy," Granger called over her shoulder. "If not, have a nice lunch!"

Draco looked at Pansy, but called back, "You're not eating?"

"I'm not hungry." Granger disappeared around the corner.

In a swirl of black hair, Pansy stomped off down the hall.

"And where are _you_ going?" Draco hollered.

"To find Blaise."

* * *

Divination wasn't Draco's favorite class, but it was the most interesting one.

A few days ago, he'd thought he abhorred it but now that Granger seemed to think they were friends, he couldn't say he _hated_ it anymore. In fact, he wasn't apprehensive about sitting at the same table or being her partner in class any longer.

Maybe now he could actually learn something, instead of spending his time focusing on maintaining his icy, indifferent exterior around her.

The fact that she would be interesting to look at today didn't hurt, either.

He got to class right before it began, having taken a detour to avoid having to walk with Pansy and Zabini. He didn't mind Zabini, but the man was a follower. If Pansy was angry, then he was like a sponge, sucking in all of her negativity and spreading that foul energy to everyone around him.

If Pansy was in a bad mood today, then Zabini would be extra irritating.

Draco wove his way between the crowded, cramped tables, ignoring the wary glances he received as he did so. He was used to them, knowing that they could be for any number of things. The fact that he was a former Death Eater, the fact that he hadn't gotten any time in Azkaban, or the fact that his mother's dead body falling into his lap at his father's trial had been on the front of the _Prophet_ . . .

The only thing that kept their mouths shut was the threat of McGonagall. And he knew he didn't deserve it. After everything he'd done and the way he'd stood by while the Carrows enacted their corporal punishment on the younger students during Seventh Year?

He wasn't sure he deserved anything more than what he'd got.

Taking his seat across the small, circular table from Granger, he set his bag down and pushed his hair back. He glanced at her, and she gave him a friendly smile. He didn't return it and gave her a curt nod.

"Thanks for helping me with the luncheon," she said. "I could have done it myself with my wand, but it would have taken twice as long, and we would have started late."

Draco relaxed in his seat, stretching one leg out. "Don't start crying again, or anything."

The smile faded from her face, but there was a fierce light to her eyes that showed him she knew he was only joking.

Well, half-joking.

"Well," she said, turning her nose up into the air, "I'm just glad you could _actually_ do your duty for once. You know, as Head Boy, you're _required_ to do a lot more than just read on the couch in the common room until you fall asleep."

"Come off it," he said, tipping his head back to stare at the arched ceiling. "You _wish_ you could lay on the couch and read yourself into a coma."

"And why can't I?" She crossed her arms, glaring at him.

"Because you've got every class under the sun on your roster, Granger, and you spend all of your time doing your homework." _Or being in the bloody loo._

" _Pfft_." She blew a curl out of her eyes. "If there's anything _I_ can manage, it's having too many classes. _Trust_ me. In any case, with the amount of sleeping you do, I'm surprised you're not failing yours. When do you study? _Hello?_ When do you _study?"_

Draco blinked, realizing that he'd just been staring at her.

Was that—her blowing the hair away— _cute?_

"I study."

"Hardly."

"Hardly, but yes. I study."

She gave him a sour look, then sighed. "Anyway, I'm even more surprised you stayed for the luncheon. Was Theo not looking for you?"

Draco averted his eyes. "Theo's fine. And the food was good. I'm Head Boy, so it wouldn't have made sense if I wasn't there."

"You missed the Back to School Brunch and the Halloween Dinner."

"Yeah, well—this time, I stayed." His eyes met hers. "You hardly ate, though. So why all this banter if you ate like, _a_ pea."

The color drained from her face for a moment—a moment that only a Legilimens could track—and then her smile returned. "Malfoy, just because I set _up_ the lunch doesn't mean I have to _eat_ the lunch. I told you I wasn't hungry. I had a big breakfast."

"Oh, you went down before you did your—jumping thing, or whatever it was?"

"No, and yes I knew you saw me exercising." She shifted in her seat. "I ate in the kitchenette."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "You cleaned your dishes?"

When she didn't reply, he couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

"There weren't any in the sink, is why I'm asking."

She started to respond, but Professor Trelawney bustled into the room from the door at the back of the classroom, silencing everyone in the room. She immediately began to prattle on in the discombobulated sort of way she had about her, and her eyes bugged out from behind her thick glasses. As she fell into her lecture, Granger fell into her notes, and someone tapped Draco on the shoulder.

"Time to spill."

It was Blaise Zabini.

Draco turned to take in his shite-eating grin. "Spill . . . What?"

"About you and Granger." He folded his arms on the back of his chair, brown eyes twinkling. "You're boffing her?"

Great.

Of _course_ Pansy would tell him. He was her current flame. She probably told him everything. And now that Blaise believed his lie, it was only a matter of time before it spread everywhere. Draco needed to nip it in the bud _now_ , before it became a real problem.

"Will you—" Draco lowered his voice to a hiss. "Shut up. Don't say that so loudly."

"Do you think that maybe you fancy her, or something? Come on—don't hold out on me."

"No. Salazar, no," Draco whispered. "Pansy misunderstood me. She—"

Blaise searched his eyes in the way that Draco hated. The kind of way that made him feel like he was in front of that bint Rita Skeeter. It made him feel like he was being judged.

"Well, do you wanna maybe explore it a little bit?" Blaise said, voice low enough that no one else could hear. Across his table from him sat Pansy, who was looking down at her painted nails. "I mean, come on. Granger's got a little something there. Don't pretend you don't _look_ at her when you're in your common room."

Draco opened his mouth to whisper back, stopping. He _had_ watched her exercise that morning, and it hadn't had anything to do with the weird dreams or the fact that he'd been seeing the world in shades of grey ever since she punched him in Third Year.

But had he watched her due to some sort of _attraction?_ Or just because she was exercising in the sitting room?

It didn't matter. He didn't fancy Granger, and the thought was absurd. He'd gotten involved with the Weasley row in the common room out of Pureblood respect for a witch. He'd given her a shoulder to lean on while she wept because he wasn't heartless. He'd been having dreams about her, sure, but that didn't necessarily mean he _fancied_ her.

Even if five years of nightly dreams was a long time to have someone floating in his head.

"Pansy misunderstood me," he whispered, leaning closer. "D'you really think I'd want to . . . With _Granger_?"

"I mean . . ." Blaise's gaze washed over his face. "I mean, it's just boffing, innit? It's not like you'd have to marry her. And why would Pansy misunderstand that?"

Trelawney continued her lecture, either unaware of the fact that Blaise and Draco were holding a whispered conversation at the back of the room, or uncaring of it.

"Because I lied," Draco said. "That's why."

"Because you—"

"Yeah, I lied."

Zabini's facial expression went deadpan. "You lied."

" _Yeah_ ," Draco said, nodding as though he were unintelligent. "I lied."

"Well, because you—"

"Yeah."

"But why would you—why would you _lie_ about Granger? Why not—"

"Because how else was I supposed to explain holding a witch while she cried?"

Blaise's eyes narrowed a fraction, but his smile never faltered. "Yeah, but like . . . Why, though? Why would you hold a witch unless you—I mean, unless you cared about her?"

Sweat prickled on the back of Draco's neck, and he reached up to comb his fingers through his hair. The awkwardness of the moment was making it hard to breathe, driving the temperature in the room up to the ceiling.

"I mean, she wants to be friends," he said.

Blaise continued to scrutinize him. "Well . . . Is that what you want?"

"I don't know why you care." Draco rubbed his palms against his knees, and Blaise watched him do so.

"Why do _you_?"

"Why do _you_?"

"Well, you know Pansy's the jealous sort," Blaise said. "You'd be better off keeping your birds away from one another."

"Pansy's _your_ bird."

" _Pansy's_ a free spirit. She boffs who she wants."

"Are you saying she's going to boff Granger?" Draco challenged.

"I dunno." Blaise's lips twitched up. "Is Granger boffable?"

"Who am I to decide who's boffable and who's not?"

"Depends. Would you boff the unboffable?"

"Would _you?"_

"This isn't about me."

" _This is—"_

" _Shh."_

The boys glanced over to Draco's left. Granger was glowering at them, her quill in hand. She looked from one to the other.

Had she heard?

"I don't know what's so important," she whispered, "but Professor Trelawney is _trying_ to teach us how to turn our tea leaf readings into actual visions. So, hush, or you're going to look imbecilic during Demonstration."

Draco rolled his eyes. Blaise grinned at her.

"Your little hair buns are cute, Granger."

Granger's eyes widened a bit and the apples of her cheeks darkened with a blush. "Thank you, Blaise."

"I think Draco likes them, too. Don't you, mate?"

Without thinking, Draco lowered his shoulder and slammed his fist into Blaise's side. The air rushed out of him and his grin dissipated as fast as melting snowflakes. He coughed, clutching his side, and Draco stifled a laugh.

With a smirk, he turned his gaze on Granger's. He could have imagined it, but the look in her eyes seemed a bit expectant. Like she was hoping he really did find them cute.

And he did, now that he was looking at them. It was an interesting hairstyle—one he'd never seen before—and the curls framed her heart-shaped face quite well. She had a nose on the flat and wide side, which he rather liked, and her eyelashes seemed curlier than usual.

 _Did_ he like the hair buns?

"Yeah."

She cleared her throat and faced the front again.

When Draco turned back to the Blaise, he was still nursing his side. Pansy was laughing into her hand.

"Stop telling him my business," Draco hissed across their table to her.

Pansy's reply was to give him a disdainful once-over and say nothing.

Trelawney continued to speak for a while longer. Draco found it difficult to focus, knowing that he was in the midst of a real issue. He'd lied to Pansy, who had then told his lie to Blaise. He'd then told Blaise that he'd lied, but it was clear he didn't believe him. How much longer would it be before the lie was all over Hogwarts?

What would Granger say if she found out?

Out of the blue, students got up and started moving their chairs closer together, signifying that Trelawney had announced it was time for Demonstration. Some remained in their space, as not every partner pair was friendly with one another, but for the most part—everyone moved around. The low murmur of chatter lifted up into the air, as Demonstration was the liveliest part of the class period.

"I'm sure you didn't pay one iota of attention," Granger said in a haughty voice as she prepared her tea for the reading.

Draco began to prepare his, too. "Well, that's what you're for, darling."

She shot him a look.

"Ah!" came a cry from the right. "My quill!"

A feather quill floated past, drifting in a lazy circular pattern to the floor by Granger's feet. She looked down at it in surprise.

Pansy walked past, placing her hand on the table in front of Granger as she leaned down to pick up her quill. As she did, Blaise spoke, drawing Granger's gaze toward him.

"Hey, Granger, tell me—what exactly happened Friday?"

Draco's head whipped to the right. He fixed his classmate with the deadliest glare he could muster.

 _Say nothing,_ he thought, hoping he could read it in his eyes. _Say absolutely fucking nothing._

"On Friday?" Granger sounded perturbed. "I don't really want to talk about that, and I haven't the slightest clue why you would ask me that in _class_. Hasn't _Ronald_ told the whole school by now?"

"Oh, he has," Blaise said. "But wouldn't you rather put your side of the story out?"

"No," she replied. "Because I don't care about any of it. Ron and I weren't a good match, and that's why it happened the way it did. I don't need to—"

There was a _clink_ noise. Draco and Granger both looked over as Pansy stood back up. Quill in hand, she sneered.

"Next time, move your teacup out of my way. It's fortunate that I didn't spill your tea all over your little _dress_."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Granger held Pansy's gaze. "I thought a failed Death Eater-in-training said something."

Zabini and Draco exchanged glances and then—at the same time—burst out laughing.

Just then, right as Pansy looked about ready to stab Granger in the eye with the point of her quill, Professor Trelawney floated up in a swirl of skirts and jingling crystals.

"Oh, my, my, my," she said, leaning down into Granger's personal space. "You look so very tired, my dear. This means you could be more susceptible to chaotic cosmic persuasion. This vision spell could have disastrous consequences if you aren't careful. Take care of her, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco arched one eyebrow. "I will, Professor Trelawney."

Trelawney gave him one of her strained, meek smiles, and then she turned to face Pansy. She made a series of dismayed noises, patted her cheek in a sympathetic manner, and then she drifted off to another table.

" _Take care of her, Mr. Malfoy,"_ Pansy mocked with an irritated expression. She stormed back to her seat and began preparing her tea. Blaise turned at that point, still laughing to himself, so Draco took it as a sign that the conversation was done.

He sipped his tea. "Did she spill it? Do you have to remake it?"

"No," Granger said, upper lip curled in distaste. "But she almost did. I don't know _why_ she hates me so much. If it weren't for me and Harry, she'd be in Azkaban. A lot of you would."

Draco's teacup froze midway between the table and his mouth.

She was right, but that didn't mean he liked to hear it.

"Right, well." He sipped the tea, but it tasted more bitter than it should have. "What's the spell?"

Granger scowled and took a large gulp of her tea. When she set it back down on the porcelain plate, she appeared unhappy.

"I knew it. I knew you paid absolutely _zero_ attention to the lecture. This is what I detest about you! I can't be a student _and_ a professor! I don't have the mental capacity to cope with learning, teaching, being Head Girl, dealing with my friendships, cleaning up the bloody common room, studying, and managing school events! It's too much! I don't have a Time-Turner!"

As she ranted, Draco realized that this was not her typical " _I'm-the-brains_ " Golden Girl meltdown. This was an actual problem. Her eyes were wild, searching the air in front of her while she waved her hands about and went on and on and on. She sounded like she was running out of breath.

Was she having a panic attack?

"Granger," he said, interrupting her. "Relax. It's not a big deal. You can go first, I'll pick up the words when you perform the spell, and then I'll go."

She took a deep breath. "I am calm. I'm calm. I just . . . _Need_ you to pay attention during Divination. I can't do everything."

"I'm aware," he said, thinking of the dirty dishes in the common room. "Fuck's sake. Just take a second. Breathe."

"Breathe," she repeated, looking up into his eyes.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Breathe."

She didn't look away as she inhaled, her shoulders rising, and Draco found that he was sucking in his breath, too. As they did, he felt all of the consternation that he'd been experiencing with the dreams and the lie and Pansy crashing against one another. They were trapped inside of him, panicking as he prepared to expel them from his body.

Together, they exhaled without looking away from one another.

He felt calm.

"All right," Granger said, sounding much less anxious than before. She picked up her wand. "Drink the rest of your tea. I'll cast the spell, and then you look at your tea leaves. Once your magical core and your mind recognize what you see, if it worked—you should have a vision. The professor said it will be a bit hazy, but you should be able to make something definitive out."

"Sounds—"

"Barmy, yes," she said. "I'm not a fan of this branch of magic, but . . . Well, let's just get started."

Draco finished the last dreg of his tea, setting the cup down without looking. Then, he heard Granger perform the spell— _apocalypsis—_ and waited for a few seconds. He didn't feel or see anything, but he glanced at the bottom of his teacup anyway.

He couldn't see anything.

"Let me try it on you," he said, and then he waited while she drank the rest of her tea. "What, is it a counterclockwise turn of the wand?"

"Yes," she said, and she frowned. "You can't find anything?"

"No, but I wanna see what happens when you do it." He withdrew his wand from his sleeve and, straightening his back, he flicked his wand in a tight, counterclockwise circle. " _Apocalypsis_."

He felt the magic flowing through the wand, but there were no sparks or lights to indicate that a spell had been performed. So that part was normal.

Granger seemed to approve, since she picked up her teacup and peered down into it. She turned it this way and that, and Draco decided he may as well try and look again. Everyone around them was gasping and letting out delighted laughs, so he was certain it would work if he just focused.

"Malfoy?"

"Yeah."

"I can't see." Her voice shook a bit, and he figured it was from her apparent failure at the spell.

Draco frowned, turning his cup around and around. No matter how he looked at it, the leaves just looked like dark green sludge. He didn't understand what he was supposed to be looking for. Trelawney was always so _vague_ with her instructions. Was he supposed to be looking for a shape, a face, a name . . . ?

"Me, neither," he said, frustrated. "It doesn't look like anything. But then again, it didn't look like anything for me in Third Year, either."

"No," Granger said and this time, her voice was a high-pitched whisper. "I can't _see_. I can't see _anything_."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. Slowly, he lifted his head and turned to face her. Her eyes—open wide as can be, moving left and right. Unseeing. She shook so hard that he could almost feel it.

The moment he looked at her, he felt it.

_What the fuck?_

The storm. Rising up within his body, getting stronger and stronger.

 _What the fuck? What the_ fuck _?!_

Until it filled his entire head with darkness. Darkness that crept in on the corners of his vision.

_CRASH!_

Granger dropped her teacup to the wooden floor, where it fell into hundreds of tiny pieces. She took a breath that Draco felt in his own lungs. The shadows grew larger, until all he could see was a familiar grey haze—a familiar grey haze with flashes of Granger's face.

Like he was in a waking dream.


	10. Chapter 10

**REFER TO TRIGGER WARNINGS PAGE FOR THIS CHAPTER.**

**You can skip the R scene, but do not skip the aftermath when she gets back to the hotel room. You will miss a huge key part of the plot and when it's referenced multiple times later, it will have no impact on you because you skipped it and won't know what is going on.**

**If you need to skip the R word scene, go to the sentence that says "Granger stumbled out onto the busy street."**

**If you still choose to skip the entire ending half of the chapter and then leave a review later complaining that you don't know why she's counting in the shower in Chapter 19 and 38, then your review will be deleted.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Eight**

_The Eiffel Tower._

_He stood before a window that overlooked parts of Paris that he recognized. The tower, standing lone and forlorn in the distance. The sun setting on the mountains behind it giving glow to the leaves of the trees at its base. Pale, multicolored buildings stretching as far as he could see._

_Why was he in France?_

_"Hermione, are you really going to wear that?"_

_Draco turned, shocked to see the Weaselbee standing in the doorway of what looked to be a small, tidy hotel room. The décor was red, the carpet green, and the wallpaper a hideous floral cream. It was by no means a Muggle suite, but it was nicer than what he'd have thought the Weasley family could afford._

_Why was he in a Muggle hotel room with the Weaselbee?_

_Confused, he tried to speak, but found that he couldn't. In fact, he couldn't do much of anything. He tried to move his hands and feet, but nothing happened._

_"Ron." The voice was coming from his mouth, but it wasn't his and he wasn't moving his lips. It was a woman's voice. "I've told you multiple times that all of us girls agreed to dress up. It's our last night in the city, and we want to have fun with it."_

_Weasley walked into the room and plopped down on the end of the bed, his elbows on his thighs and fingers laced in front of his face. He wore a sour expression and his hair looked less shaggy than Draco remembered it. Instead of brushing his shoulders, it curled around the oaf's ears._

_Was this the past?_

_Was this a dream?_

_What was going on?_

_Draco felt himself moving towards a full body mirror in the corner of the hotel room. As he did, his reflection came into view._

_It was Granger._

_Her hair had been pulled back into a sleek bun at the base of her head. The bun itself was as curly as could be, and clearly some sort of hair product had been used to slick the hair down. The edges of her hair along her hairline had been styled into some sort of flat, swooping shapes from her temple to her ears._

_She wore light makeup, with lips painted dark red to contrast the terra-cotta of her skintone, and her dress was stunning. Red satin with thin straps, a square neckline, no brassiere, and short as can be. It ruched up the sides and her black tights were sheer. She wore strappy red heels which added a couple of inches to her height, and when she gave herself a small, coy smile, she looked like she knew she looked good._

_Draco had never been this speechless inside his own head before._

_Why didn't she dress like this every day?!_

_"You don't think you should wear a jumper over that?" Weasley said, complaining._

_"It's the middle of August, Ronald," Granger said, turning to him. Draco felt his arms crossing—_ her _arms. "You can't expect me to wear a jumper when it's eighty degrees every day."_

_"Okay," Weaselbee said, but the look on his face showed that it wasn't okay. "But don't come crying to me when someone says you look like a slag."_

_Draco would have risen his eyebrows if he could. He'd been astonished to hear Weasley talking to her the way he had in the Head common room, but to hear it again was unsettling. The Golden Trio presented themselves as the perfect friends. But it seemed as though things weren't so._

_"Ron!" Granger put her hands on her hips. "Don't be cruel and say things like that! I'm not a slag just because I'm wearing a dress. It's Muggle fashion—Parisian fashion, to be exact. I bought it when Fleur, Ginny, and I went to the promenade."_

_"I highly doubt that my sister would buy something like that," Weasley said, jumping to his feet. His face had started to redden with anger. "We may be poor, but we're Pureblood wizards and there's not a single wizard who would be okay with their witch walking around like—like that."_

_"Harry did like it!" Granger cried, throwing her hands up. "Ginny showed him her dress, and he liked it!"_

_"Hers was probably not as short as that. There's no bloody way in Hell—"_

_"Hers was not as short, no, but it's just as revealing. And yes, he was okay with it."_

_This had to be a dream. It had to be. But if it was a dream, why was it so clear? The grey haze that was normally present was gone. It was truly as though Draco were physically there, trapped inside of Granger's skin as she put one foot in front of the other. He could feel what she felt—he just couldn't hear her thoughts._

_"Look," she said, walking across the room to grab a purse off of the dresser. It was black with a long strap, which she crossed over her body and hung off of one shoulder. Then, she snatched her wand up and shoved it into the purse. "It's just a dress, and we're going to be late. We're in Paris, Ronald. This is Muggle fashion. We're going to a Muggle pub. No one will think less of me for wearing this dress. Now, let's go."_

_Weasley grumbled to himself but did as he was told._

_As they exited the room, Draco saw there was a daily calendar on the bedside table, right beside the alarm clock._

_August 17_ _th_ _, 1998._

_O_

_They'd been at the pub for hours._

_It was dark outside, and not as hot as it had been earlier. It was cool enough to where Draco had a feeling Granger was regretting not bringing a jumper. The pub they were in was on a seedy side of the city, but the Muggle bartender was fast, so it was easy for everyone to get sozzled. The Weasley parents had stayed behind at the hotel, but all of the younger ones had come to the pub._

_Over the hours, Draco had gleaned as much information as he could._

_It was indeed August. This was the Weasley Family Vacation, for lack of a better word, and they were in Paris, France. Their fallen brother, Fred Weasley, had always dreamed of going to Paris on vacation, but the war had gotten in the way of his plans. So, the family had decided to take his ashes there and spread them._

_They'd been there for two weeks. They'd spent the time sightseeing, seeing everything from Disneyland to the Louvre, and they'd had as much fun as they could possibly have. Photographs had been taken, laughter had been shared, and the only time any of them shed tears was the day they surreptitiously spread Fred's ashes in the Seine. Apparently, it wasn't legal for Muggles, and since Granger didn't want to have to_ obliviate _the Muggle authorities, some sneaking had to be done._

_The bill for the trip was footed by all of them, a combination of their reward money for serving in the Battle of Hogwarts. It was a proper send-off, they felt, after years of being in school together and fighting in the war._

_Eighth Year loomed on the horizon._

_George was going to continue to run the shop. Ron was going to return to school with Granger, finished up his N.E.W.T.S, and follow after Potter. Potter, who had been offered early acceptance to the Auror training program in November, was going to stay on at The Burrow until it came time to go to Norway for the training. Ginny was skipping her Seventh Year and going on to play professional Quidditch, which didn't surprise Draco one bit—she'd always been an ace Seeker. Bill Weasley and his wife Fleur were staying at a cottage called Shell Cottage, with plans to try for a baby._

_Everyone knew where they were going and what they were going to do with their lives. They had visions for their futures._

_Everyone except Granger._

_She'd been fielding questions left and right for hours, seeming more preoccupied with the fact that her wizard was eyeing a Muggle girl nearby who wore an even shorter dress than she did. Even though Draco couldn't hear her thoughts, he could feel her heart splintering in her chest like charred wood. He could feel her confusion and her stress, and he could feel that she was sad._

_Why was it attractive to the Weaselbee when other girls dressed that way, but not when she did it?_

_Draco thought the oaf was as blind as fuck, but he couldn't exactly tell Granger that. First of all, his mouth wouldn't work. Second, he wasn't going to_ compliment _Granger. The closest he'd come was confirming that he liked her hair buns in Divination class._

 _But this_ was _a dream. Undoubtedly. And in dreams, there were no repercussions. There were_ supposed _to be no repercussions. If he had the ability to use his words or thoughts to talk to her, he would have told her something much different than what the Weasel had._

_Because he wasn't blind._

_She was gorgeous, and he had a feeling that the Weaselbee knew that. He had a feeling that he knew it, and Weasley was so insecure about it that all he could do was look elsewhere. Other girls, other witches, other shiny things. Anything to take his mind off of that fact that he wasn't good enough for someone like Granger. Anything to show himself that he was thousands of leagues below her on the scale. By using behaviors that made him into as bad of a person as he felt inside, he was making himself feel better, but hurting Granger irreparably in the process._

_No wonder she'd cried so much._

_It wasn't as if Draco was good enough for her, either. The difference was he'd rather internalize his insecurities than externalize them. If he was with Granger, the last thing Draco would do is hurt her. He'd rather hurt himself._

_"What about writing to Kingsley?" Potter said from Granger's right._

_Draco felt Granger turning her head. Her hand tightened around the one cup of water that she'd had all night. She hadn't ordered any drinks or food, and her stomach had been twisted into a tight coil ever since she'd caught sight of the Weaselbee ogling the Muggle girl._

_"That's an option," she said, her voice covering up the emptiness he could feel inside of her. "I had thought about it. But I can't really think about it until I start Eighth Year."_

_"Are you sure you want to take the risk?" Potter replied before taking a swig of his alcoholic beverage. "Remember, McGonagall told us in Fifth Year that that was the year we needed to pick our path. How will you know what classes to take?"_

_Draco felt her stress levels rising, filling her chest like a heavy storm cloud._

_"I know," she said. "I have some ideas. Don't fret."_

_"What are they?"_

_She sipped the water. Draco could feel that her mouth remained dry. "I have quite a few of them, and there's too many to name."_

_"So, just name one of them." It was Ginny, from Potter's right. "Maybe we can help you cross it off the list?"_

_Draco felt a panic spiking in Granger's body._

_"Well—I had actually—you see—" She cleared her throat, and to Draco, it was obvious she didn't have any ideas at all. "The ideas are rough. Rudimentary, but niche. It would take too long for me to explain them. But Harry—are you excited to start Auror training?"_

_Ginny gave her a suspicious look, but Potter lit up and began talking almost immediately. He took over the conversation at the full table and soon, everyone was asking_ him _questions instead of Granger._

_Inside, Draco felt her relief._

_Yes. This had to be a dream._

_The dreams had never been this vivid, nor this imprisoning. He'd never walked inside of Granger's skin before. He'd never been able to look Weaselbee, Potter, or anyone else in the eye. The dreams were always flashes, temporary bursts of things that he'd been unable to discern. Yet here he was, and he could feel it when Granger had an itch on her nose._

_The nightmare that he'd had of Granger's screaming—the nightmare he'd had on the night of August 17_ _th_ _—was the dream he was inside of right now._

" _Who wants to hit that dance club down the street one last time?" Ginny said before downing the last of her mixed drink. She gestured to her dress, which was only about an inch longer than Granger's, bright glittering blue, and had short sleeves. "I know I don't want to waste this dress."_

" _I don't want you to waste it, either," Potter said, and Draco wanted to vomit as he laid a large kiss against the redhead's lips._

" _Can you not, and say you did?" Weasley said, balling up a napkin and tossing it at Potter's head. "That's my sister."_

_Potter began to tear into him, starting a back-and-forth banter session that not even Draco could keep up with. While they did so, Ginny hopped off of her stool and patted Granger on the arm._

" _Let's step outside for a second so I can—" She pantomimed smoking and then shot a surreptitious glance towards the door._

_Granger nodded, and then handed her purse to Weasley. "Ron, can you watch my bag for me? We're just going to—"_

" _Yeah," he said, voice curt as he took the black purse from her before resuming his conversation with Potter. Draco felt like he had snatched it, but Granger's emotions showed no indication of his rudeness._

_She followed Ginny out the door. Ginny wasn't wearing as high of heels as she was, but the two witches seemed able to keep up with one another all right as they stepped out of a side door and into a small alley._

_The alley was lit only by the streetlights at either end of it, and one blue light above their heads. On the road, automobiles trundled back and forth. The sidewalks were full, young people prancing from pub to pub, or to the many dance clubs that Paris was known for._

_Ginny withdrew a cigarette from her purse and lit it, crossing one arm under her chest as she leaned against the brick wall. Her long red hair was pulled up into a ponytail high on top of her head, and the tail fell forward over the front of her shoulder. Her green eyes managed to remain bright, though the lighting cast a sickly-pale pallor over her freckled skin._

" _I thought out of all of us, you would have figured out what you wanna do," she said, blowing smoke out of the corner of her glossed lips. "Even Ron knows what he's going to do."_

_Draco felt Granger's heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach._

" _I know," she said with a false laugh. "It's just a bit more difficult to choose than I thought."_

" _Well, you have a lot of options," Ginny said, taking another drag. She tapped the ashes out onto the ground._

" _I suppose so," Granger replied, and her anxiety started to rise inside of her chest. It felt like it was difficult to breathe. "I have a lot to think about, but I think I'll know once school starts."_

_Ginny nodded, and the two of them stood staring at one another while the redhead smoked for a minute or so. Then, Ginny tilted her head to the side._

" _All right, Hermione?"_

" _Yeah," Granger said. "I'm great. Why do you ask?"_

" _I dunno." Ginny frowned, a cloud of smoke misting out of her mouth. "You just seem . . . Off. Is everything all right with you and Ron?"_

" _Honestly, Ginny," Granger said, and Draco felt her plastering a smile onto her face. "You worry too much. Everything's fine with Ron and I, and I'm okay. As for my future, I'll figure out what I want to do when I get back to Hogwarts. I'm not worried about it at all."_

_Draco knew she was lying. Her heart was racing much too fast for her to be telling the truth. He could feel her cheeks aching from how fake her smile was._

_He just didn't understand why she was lying._

_Granger always_ had _seemed like the one to have her shite together. If he could have picked anyone in the entirety of Hogwarts who was more prepared for life than anyone ever before, he would have picked her. She had the best grades, the most extracurriculars, and had been there by Potter's side every step of the way towards defeating the Dark Lord. The war would still be waging if it weren't for her._

_And she didn't know what she wanted to do after graduation._

_By now, Draco knew without a doubt that this was more than just a dream—more than a possible nightmare. The puzzle pieces had started to fall into place and things were making sense. Something had happened in Divination that had taken his mind and melded it with hers. Something had pulled him in and drowned him in it, forcing him to see._

_This was a memory._

_The girls chatted for a while and then went back inside. Back at the table, everyone was starting to pay their tabs and stand up. Ginny went to Potter's side, who told her they'd decided to go to a club. Granger went to the Weaselbee's, but for some reason, he was glaring down at her._

_Everyone filed outside and started walking down the street, but Weasley's hand on Granger's wrist stopped them on the sidewalk. They stood at the mouth of the alley that Ginny had smoked in, half-shrouded in shadows. Granger looked up at her wizard, and Draco thought his expression was one of disgust._

" _Who was smoking, Hermione?" Weaselbee asked, tone bitter. "Was it you or Gin?"_

" _It was Ginny," Granger said, sounding confused. "I've never smoked a day in my life."_

 _Weasley's upper lip curled. "You mean, you stood there while my sister_ smoked _right in front of you? You didn't try to stop her?"_

" _What on—Ronald, why else would she need to step out of the side door, if not to smoke?"_

" _I can't believe you." He shook his head, scowling with revulsion. "I can't_ believe _you. That's my_ sister _, and the last thing she should be doing is smoking. She's only sixteen, for fuck's sake!"_

" _It's her body!" Granger cried, anger intensifying. "I'm the last witch on Earth that's going to tell another girl what to do with her body!"_

" _Yeah." He gave her a once-over that reeked of disapproval. "When you dress like that, I'm not surprised."_

" _Why are you acting like this? Why are you trying to hurt me?"_

" _I'm right peeved with you, Hermione. The fact that you not only convinced my sister to dress like a slag, but to smoke like one, too? We aren't your pet projects."_

" _Convinced your . . . ?" Her ire expanded and exploded inside of her chest. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I've never made any of your family members into pet projects, Ronald. And your sister is the one one who picked out her dress. The smoking's got naught to do with me, so I don't know why you would think—"_

" _Yeah, whatever. I'm starting to get sick of this. You're manipulating me." He turned to walk away._

"Manipulating _you?!" Her heels_ click _ed against the sidewalk as she sped up. She grabbed his sleeve and glared up at him. "How could you say something like that? I have never once even attempted to manipulate you! I'm telling you the truth. I didn't pick Ginny's dress, and I had no say in her smoking. I mean, I—I knew she did, but I assumed that you—Ron, slow down—that you_ knew _!"_

" _You think I'm stupid," he shot back, also glaring. "You've always thought I was stupid, and you've always found ways to hide things from me. You and Harry both._ And _Ginny! You hide them, and you act like I'm too stupid to know the difference."_

_He turned and continued on in the direction the family had gone._

_As their row continued down the sidewalk a ways, the two of them heedless of other bar- and club-goers sending them perturbed glances, Draco found himself shocked. The fact that Granger had allowed Weasley to talk to her like this in the Head common room hallway had been astonishing enough, but this was way back in August. If Draco_ ever _talked to her this way, she'd slit his throat with her fingernails._

_How long had she been allowing the Weaselbee to treat her like Thestral shite?_

_At the street corner, Granger leapt ahead and moved in front of him. Draco felt her put her hands on her hips and stop him in his tracks._

" _No. We're going to talk about this. We're not going to the club."_

_Weasley's eyes narrowed. "There's nothing to talk about. Just know that I don't trust you."_

_Granger let out an exasperated sigh. "What's there not to trust? What have I ever done to warrant you not trusting me?!"_

_Draco would have scoffed if he could. The Weaselbee turned out to boff three other girls and send flirtatious glances to Granger's friend, and_ he _was concerned about trust? How had such a volatile relationship survived? Not even he and Pansy could make it in a relationship—they'd made it all of about one fortnight before they'd downgraded to hook-ups only._

" _I am just—look, you don't get it," Weaselbee snapped, trying to go around her. "You're not gonna get it, so just drop it, and let's go to the bloody club."_

_Granger moved into his way again and again, left and then right, and Weasley exploded._

" _Just fucking forget it, Hermione!" he yelled, causing several passersby to scatter. "Forget it! Ever since the war ended, it's been like this with you. You talk to me like I can't understand anything, and like 'I should just know' things. And when I tell you something that brasses me off, you treat me like I'm barmy!"_

" _Because you called me a slag today for wearing this dress, and then when Ginny wears something similar, you say I drove her to do it! And_ then _, you accuse me of hiding that she's smoking, or—or_ influencing _her to do it!"_

" _Aren't you? You knew she was smoking, and you haven't said anything to me before. You walked back into the pub and said_ nothing _to me. But you both reeked of it. And Ginny never wore that sort of stuff before, and neither did you! The war ended, and it's like you threw away all of your morals—"_

" _My morals?!" Granger threw back her head in a mirthless laugh of incredulity. "My morals have_ nothing _to do with my body and the way I dress. There's nothing wrong with showing a bit of skin, and just because_ you _don't know how to control yourself, doesn't mean that women need to cover up."_

" _Oh, bloody Hell," Weasley spat with audible disgust. "Don't give me that. Don't you give me that Muggle shite. It's got nothing to do with men and women, witches and wizards. It's got nothing to do with it."_

" _Yes, it certainly does. The only reason why you don't want me in this dress is because you're afraid you can't control yourself when you see me in it. You sexualize my body just by looking at it, and that is not my fault. I shouldn't have to change my clothing and cover myself up when I want to feel sexy, just because you think it's an invitation."_

_She had a point there._

_Weaselbee sneered, his lip curling upward. "As if you'd let me. All you ever want to do is snog. Lavender—"_

"Lavender _isn't here to defend herself," Granger said, raising her voice as her eyes blazed. "So, let's not speak about her, shall we?"_

_They glared at one another for a long moment, during which Draco was sure the argument was over. They were in love, best friends, mates, or whatever. So, this would be the moment where the apology was given. If it were Draco, he knew he would have apologized by now, whether out of Pureblood decorum or obligation. Weaselbee was going to—_

" _Lavender wasn't as frigid as you. So, who's fault is it that I feel like I can't control myself when you dress like that?"_

— _or maybe not._

_Sorrow. Draco felt it spreading inside of Granger's body, from her heart to her stomach to the rest of her body. It was the same sort of pain he'd felt all of Sixth Year. The pain he'd felt when he laid awake at night with his gaze on the canopy of his bed, silent tears melting into the hair near his temples, and contemplated begging Dumbledore for help._

_When he'd felt like he wasn't good enough._

_How the fuck could Granger think she wasn't good enough for Ron Weasley? She was so far out of his league that she was in the sun and he was far, far below the surface of the Earth. Hell, Draco was somewhere a few inches above Weasley. Everyone was. No one was good enough for the Golden Girl._

_How could she not see how bright she shone?_

_But Granger—strong, confident Hermione Granger—didn't let this vulnerability show on her face. Instead, Draco felt her pulling her brows together in a glare. She pointed up at the Weasel._

" _You kissed that girl in London last month, and I forgave you. Don't make me regret it."_

_So Gregoria Thistlewait, Katie Bell, and Pansy Parkinson hadn't been his first mistakes._

_They had been his last._

" _And there it is again!" Weasley threw one hand up and tangled it in his hair. "You're never gonna let it go, are you? You're never gonna let me forget it. I was_ sozzled, _Hermione!"_

" _I know, and that's why I forgave you!"_

" _But you haven't forgotten."_

_Granger's heart stopped in her chest for a moment, and then drummed a few rapid beats to catch up on itself. She straightened her back and Draco saw concrete as she looked down. When she lifted her gaze again, he felt a measure of resignation inside of her._

" _No. I suppose I haven't."_

" _Clearly. Clearly, and now you're trying to change_ me _to make me into the person you wish I was. You've always done this to me. If it wasn't trying to get me to do my homework, it was trying to get me to follow the rules when you hardly followed them yourself. You want me to be someone else."_

" _Ron, that's not true!" Granger cried, and Draco felt it. She was right—she truly liked him exactly as he was. "I only want you to be you. You're the person I fell for."_

_Weasley turned away. "I'm going to find some other pub across the city."_

" _Why? Can't we just talk—"_

" _No. Stop smothering me," he snapped. "I'm right brassed off and if I don't leave now, I'm going to break it off with you."_

Crack.

_He'd Apparated away._

_The sadness that sunk into Granger's bones the second she realized he'd left was almost enough to throw Draco into his own despair. It was like she'd been carrying it for years and just needed to set it down for a moment so she could rest. But the sheer magnitude of it overwhelmed her. She was suffocating._

_Draco couldn't breathe._

_Suddenly, Granger gasped and whispered aloud to herself._

_"My wand."_

_She turned to look over her shoulder, as though Weaselbee hadn't just Apparated away to Merlin-knows where and would be standing there. As if he would come back. To the left and right of her, girls in sparkling dresses and platform heels skirted her. Men in fancy shirts and tight pants jumped around her, saying cheeky things to her in French. Draco knew anyone else would be afraid, but inside of Hermione Granger's heart, he felt only annoyance._

_He would be annoyed, too, if his wand had gotten taken from him._

_Granger tried to_ accio _it, but nothing happened. With a sigh, she muttered, "I guess I'll just wait until he figures it out and comes back."_

_She leaned up against the apartment building beside her, the streetlight offering cold solace. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited._

_Draco wasn't sure how to feel about any of this. He knew there was nothing he could do to change it—and the fact that he wanted to was a matter he would need to unpack later—but that didn't stop him from wanting to help. He wasn't the sort, yet he still felt the urge. Was it because he was trapped?_

_Or because he truly cared?_

_Granger stood there for a solid forty-five minutes before she stood up. Draco felt the defeat in her chest as she looked to the left and the right. He couldn't read her mind, but he could tell she was torn between going to the club where her friends were or doing something else. Perhaps going back to the hotel . . . ?_

_She began to walk._

_And walk._

_And walk._

_Draco remembered. When they left the hotel, they'd walked down the street, around the corner, five blocks down, left, one block, crossed the street, and then they had taken a right. If only there were some way for him to speak or to tell her. To think the words to her._

_A silent prisoner inside her mind and her memory, all he could do was watch._

_Granger took all the wrong turns. She went in circles. She stood on curbs and chewed her lip until she made another bad choice. Another bad decision. Soon, she was in an area that he knew for a fact she didn't recognize. It was dark, with hardly any streetlights that weren't covered in dust and grime._

_Draco realized with sinking, stonelike dismay that she was lost. She was lost, and this was August 17_ _th_ _, 1998. The night of the one nightmare that he'd ever had about her. The one full of darkness, shadows, and screams. He hadn't known what happened to her, nor if it were real._

_He was about to find out._

_The street Granger walked onto was empty save for one person leaning against a street sign, lighting a cigarette. He wore plainclothes and a hat, and was grizzled and large in height. As he looked up and locked eyes with Granger, Draco felt the first hint of fear sparking inside of her. She shoved it away, batting it like an insect, and marched across the pavement to get to him._

_Brave._

_"Excuse me," Granger said in barely-decipherable French. "I'm—uh—cannot find . . . ? Um—home? No—"_

_"Do you speak English?" the man said, his voice accented. He pushed away from the streetlight and took a step toward her._

_Granger's fingers flexed at her side, like she wanted to reach for her wand._

_"Yes," she said, sounding relieved. "My French isn't very good. But can you help me find my hotel? I'm staying at one over near the promenade. It's really tall, painted bright blue, and sort of near the—"_

_"I know where that is," the man said, smiling as he blew smoke out. He looked friendly enough, but then again, Draco wasn't the best judge of character after growing up with Lucius for a father. "Do you know what part of the city this is?"_

_"N—Yes," Granger said, and Draco felt her heart thumping to the beat of her lie. "But I just need some general directions."_

_"It's better if I walk you," the man said, nonchalant as he flicked ashes onto the ground and slipped one hand into the pocket of his slacks. His teeth were disarmingly white. "You'll just keep getting lost around here. The streets are old and winding."_

_The apprehension reared high in Granger's throat as she protested, backing away._

_"Really, I'm fine. If you could just tell me which direction to go, I can find my way."_

_"Are you certain?" The tip of the cigarette glowed in the dark. "Someone as pretty as you shouldn't be alone tonight."_

_She wasn't alone, Draco wanted to say, feeling his hackles rising. Because she wasn't. He was here, inside of her mind. She didn't know it, but he was._

_He wished she knew._

_"Please," she said, tone polite, "if you could just tell me where to go, I can find my way just fine."_

_"Hn." The man grunted, shook more ashes out, and allowed his smile to fade into nothingness. It added years to his face, bringing out the lines around his frowning mouth. "If you go back the way you came, there's an alley that shortcuts all the way there. You're not actually that far—you're just on the backside of it. It's two blocks that way." He pointed with the cigarette to a bread shoppe with dark windows. "Take a left there and walk all the way down. You'll have a perfect view of the Tower, and then you'll recognize the promenade. It's always lit up."_

_"Thank you," Granger said, turning and hurrying across the street._

_The further she got from the man, the more her fear faded, and the better Draco felt._

_Granger followed the instructions and sure enough, they found themselves at the mouth of an alley that was so long that the lights of the other side looked small. She squinted, and Draco could see automobiles whizzing past. It would take a good five minutes to get to the other side, but it didn't look like anyone was in the alleyway._

_Five minutes to home free._

_She set off at a brisk pace, the sound of her heels echoing along the tall buildings to either side of her. She kept her arms hugged around her against the light chill that had settled in. Paris wasn't actually very warm during the last half of August, so Draco suspected Granger had a bit of regret for not bringing the jumper._

_Draco felt the same relief within him that he could feel within her. Soon, she'd be back at the hotel and maybe then, she would sleep. He hoped that the nightmare he'd had had been just that. He hoped this was just some fluke with the Divination spell, and that nothing was going to happen._

_The end of the alley loomed closer. The car engines were so loud that Draco couldn't hear anything else. The sidewalks were moderately full. About ten or eleven meters, and then—_

_A hand curving around Granger's left shoulder, yanking her backwards away from the lights and the people. Granger twisting around. Her wand hand, reaching for nothing._

_Then, a second hand—big and meaty—wrapping around her left wrist and pulling so hard that Draco feared her arm would come out of its socket. She started to scream._

_The hand moved from her shoulder to her mouth, and then the connecting forearm slammed into part of her throat. The sound was choked into silence right as her back hit the brick, and then her head cracked against the stone._

_Fear that Draco had only felt in the face of the Dark Lord exploded inside of Granger's body, vibrating like electrical pulses as she looked up into the dark eyes of the man with the cigarette that had given her the directions._

_It became apparent that he still had the cigarette when he lifted it to his lip, took a drag, and then without so much as a second to spare, ground the lit end into the center of Granger's chest._

_The pain was excruciating and concentrated, unlike the type that magic could inflict. It was visceral and real. Unbearable._

_Gasping, Granger's hands clawed at the man's, knocking the cigarette away. He pressed his forearm into her more firmly, allowing no air to escape past his fingers as they gripped her face tighter. As her lungs begged for air, he took his finger and pressed it into the wound. When he twisted his nail into her tender, weeping flesh, Draco truly felt imprisoned._

_Blood trickled down underneath the neckline of her dress, in-between her breasts._

_"So rude," the man said in English, like it was important that she remember what he had to say. "Let's see if you fuck rude, too."_

_He hauled back and slammed his fist into Granger's gut, right beneath her ribcage. There was no air to rush outward, so all she could do was go limp. She wheezed behind the man's hand and Draco saw her vision beginning to swim. Acute pain twisted sharp and crippling in her torso. There was panic there, her confidence withering like dying flowers._

_He felt determination and dismay spinning inside of her heart. She probably wanted to reach for her wand but couldn't._

_It was gone._

_And the man—who smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and sweat—spun her around and smashed her into the wall. She tried to fight, but his entire girth overwhelmed her. Her fingernails scrabbled at the wall, pushing against it to try and get some space so she could breathe._

_The panic increased the longer she went without air._

_Draco's mind was blank. For the first time in the duration of this experience, he felt like he wasn't inside of Granger's mind anymore. He felt like he was floating somewhere outside of space and time, watching from afar._

_Was this . . . Was this really happening?_

_The man seemed to have nothing more to say. His hands did all of the talking, the left one stroking the outside of Granger's thigh and pulling the hem of her ruched dress upward. Cool air rushed to touch her rear outside of her nylons. The man's right hand wrapped around her throat from behind and squeezed, pulling backward._

_She gasped, sucking in air that tasted sweet in spite of the rankness of the man's scent._

_"Please," she managed to whisper past the suffocation. As the man's hand traveled inward, squeezing between her legs, he felt her heart breaking into thousands of pieces. Both of her hands pushed against his wris. "P-Please stop."_

_Draco didn't care about a lot of things, but hearing Granger beg the same way she had when his aunt was torturing her? He cared about that._

_Why was the universe making him watch this?_

_The seconds ticked by, during which Draco thought something might happen. That someone might Apparate into existence, or a Muggle might chance a look into the shadows of the alleyway. That Granger might produce her wand, or_ accio _it even though she'd already tried and failed._

_But he felt it when the man's hands slipped into her knickers from the side. He felt it when she realized that there was nothing she could do. He felt it when she gave up. He felt it when the man sunk his fingers into her bun and yanked her head back so far that it hurt._

_Draco didn't want to see this._

_He didn't want to watch—_

_"Oh_ God. _Okay," Granger said, sounding anguished and terrified—like she had only just realized what was going on. "Oh—okay. Okay, do you want money? I can get money."_

_Silence._

_Draco couldn't watch this—didn't want to be here—could feel everything—_

_The man's fingers probed. She yelped when his fingernail scratched her and tried to lift up on her tip-toes to get away._

_"I can—can get on my knees?" A stuttered disguise masking the fear burning in her blood. "I'll do whatever you want me to do to you. I will, okay?"_

_Fuck, why was she so fucking smart? Why couldn't she just be stupid and scream as loudly as she could, instead of trying to reason with him? If she screamed between passing automobiles, then someone would hear and help her. Someone would help, because Draco couldn't. Why was she trying to talk her way out of—_

_"Please," she said, her breaths nearing hyperventilation. Another sob. "Please, okay?_ Please _. I can get you_ any _amount of money. Anything you want."_

_Draco wanted to reach for his galleons._

_The man said nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Granger didn't realize it, but Draco did: this man was not someone who could be bought with anything but the currency of flesh._

_A tearing sound._

_The man had withdrawn his hand from her body—without letting go of her hair, which was causing an ache in her neck—and was now tearing a hole in her nylons._

_"Wait," she said, sounding almost confused. It made Draco want to punch a wall. "Wait, wait, wait. Wait, all right?_ Please, wait _!"_

_When the man dragged her knickers down and shoved his own pants and trousers down, Draco felt it._

_When the man shoved himself inside of her and the pain rocketed upward through her entire body, Draco felt it._

_When Gryffindor bravery failed her and she was forced to redirect all of her focus into struggling for breath past the agony, Draco felt it._

_If he had the ability to use his_ fucking _hands, that man would be_ fucking _dead._

_She screamed, but it choked off into a series of strangled sobs as the man tugged harder on her hair bun. Her neck was at an awful backward angle, her eyes only able to stare upwards at the starry sky as she was violated with violent, painful accuracy. The man knew what he was doing—it was clear he'd had these intentions the moment he'd given her the directions. And with the way he was forcing Granger's head back, the way her skin was stretched—any scream she managed to give wouldn't be loud enough._

_They were loud enough for him._

_Draco remembered the way those screams had echoed in his head when he'd had the nightmare. He remembered the fear and desperation in them, and he'd known that they were her even though he hadn't been able to see past the darkness._

_He'd been asleep while she was being assaulted._

_Salazar, fuck._

" _Please stop," she whispered, and Draco felt the man twisting her hair and moving faster. It increased the pain, shoved her onto her tip-toes in her heels again. Regret washed through her for something Draco couldn't possibly know without asking her. "Just—plea—"_

_She cut herself off, realizing it at the same moment that Draco did._

_The man liked it when she spoke._

_She sucked in a shaking breath and squeezed her eyes shut, remaining silent in resilience. For some reason, Draco felt a strange sense of affection rushing through him for her._

_He was glad she was smart. He was really bloody glad she was smart enough not to do anything to make this worse for herself, and better for the man._

_But it reminded him of the day the Snatchers brought her into the Manor. The day his aunt pushed her to her limits and broke her. The day Draco had let fear control him._

_He couldn't do anything then, but he could do something now, couldn't he?_

_Draco tried to take a step forward. Tried to break free of the confines of the memory and force himself into reality. Tried to do anything—Legilimency, wandless magic, wishes and hopes—to help. To do anything other than just stand there and watch. To just let her know she wasn't alone._

_Nothing worked._

_He fucking despised himself._

_It lasted for two more minutes, during which Draco tried his best to embrace the pain because he couldn't shoulder it for her. The sickening grunts the man was eliciting would have made Draco ill if he had a corporeal form. He was certain he would never forget them._

_The man staggered backward, putting himself to rights again. As he did, Granger pulled her knickers up in a stupor. Her vision was slow to refocus as she took deep breaths, fixed her dress, and smoothed her hair. On the verge of her anxiety, walking a tight rope between despair and numbness, she turned to face the man._

_Draco felt strength inside of her, holding her upright as she looked her attacker directly in the eyes._

_The man's eyebrows shot up—like he was astonished she was actually looking at him—and he took a step backward._

Shing _!_

_The magic burst out of her without warning or preamble, surprising both her and Draco as power that was not visible slammed into the man's body and sent him soaring deeper into the alley. Magic sparked and tingled from her magical core, beneath her lungs. It traveled the length of her arm, masking the pain of her tender flesh and wrapped itself around her emotions to keep them intact._

_Bloody Hell._

_Granger stumbled out onto the busy street, nearly running into a group of drunk college-age girls in scant dresses as she did so. They cheered—because they were sozzled—and kept walking. Granger said nothing to them, instead choosing to look around._

_She focused on the promenade, which was a series of shoppes lit up with Christmas lights that twinkled on and off in patterns. After looking both ways, she crossed the street to the buildings and went to the right._

_Draco could feel it. Her shame._

_She was trying to hold it together._

_It took only a couple of minutes to locate the hotel. Granger floated in and up to the concierge like a haunt, with a false smile on her face and a tremble to her voice. She told them she'd lost her purse, gave them Molly and Arthur Weasley's names, and they called Arthur for identity confirmation. They gave her a new key after informing her of the charge for the lost key, and then she went into the elevator._

_The doors slid shut and Draco caught sight of her appearance in the reflective surface._

_She looked fine. Like nothing was wrong. Her curly hair was still in its bun, with the sleek "edges," he'd heard her call them to Fleur still swooped into place. Her make-up wasn't smeared and her dress wasn't torn. The only part of her that looked untoward was her nylons, as there was a run in the left knee._

_However inside, she wasn't fine._

_Draco could feel her heart beating too fast to track. Her muscles shook, tremulous with adrenaline and fear. Her fingertips tingled with the remnants of the outburst of her accidental magic. And she was in agony._

_She couldn't breathe._

_The hotel room was dark, empty of the Weaselbee. But he'd been there. Her purse was on the bed, open. Beside it was her wand._

_Draco felt his anger burning hot and acidic. The oaf had taken her wand out of her purse, held it, and then left it on the bed. He'd likely contemplated bringing it back to her and then had purposefully left it behind._

_And when Granger picked up her wand to perform an after-coitus contraceptive charm, Draco was certain that he wanted to hold Granger's hand. Or her. Anything. He just wanted to embrace her. He didn't care about the past, or anything they'd gone through. He didn't care about the bickering._

_He wished he was in the hotel room with her so she didn't have to deal with this by herself._

_An inhuman sound leaving Granger's throat tore his own thoughts back to where he presently was within the memory. She clutched a hand to her stomach, which ached as vicious as the bruises in-between her legs. The sobs wrenched their way out of her gut, hurting on their way out. Her knees buckled and she collapsed on the carpeted floor against the end of the bed. Her other hand was wrapped around her wand, clutching it tight as her heart screamed in desperation. Her mouth agape, she wailed in the dark with her cheek pressed to the edge of the mattress._

_"I can't," was all she kept saying. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I can't."_

_Fuck. What the . . . Fuck._

_Just—Fuck._

_The last time Draco had felt this helpless, his mother was dead in his lap in front of the Wizengamot._

_Fuck. Salazar fucking dammit._

_He wished he was there so he could find that man and eviscerate him. Granger was the strongest witch he knew, and all it had taken was the Weaselbee keeping her wand from her to bring her down._

_Weasley._

_Fucking Weasley._

_He was dead. He was dead as Hell when Draco got to him._

_She wept herself into catatonia, until all she could do was inhale and exhale. She moved like a specter through the hotel room, shedding her clothing and incinerating it all with a spell. She got into a shower that was ice-cold. Draco felt it like daggers against her skin, but he accepted the pain. He could feel her accepting it, too._

_He watched as she scrubbed between her legs not once, not twice, and not thrice—but five times. She dug her fingernails inside of her body, doing her best to be meticulous as she cleaned herself up. She stopped even though he could feel that she wasn't satisfied with her cleanliness and went about the rest of her shower activities as normal._

_Draco simply existed within her mind as she lathered a travel shampoo into her scalp, trying his best to stay present in the moment and not flash back to everything he'd seen and felt. He stayed present as she smoothed conditioner along her curls, staring at the floor for three minutes while it soaked in. She washed it out, and then stepped out and into a towel._

_When she walked past the mirror, she didn't look at herself._

_Minutes later, swathed in an oversized Muggle tee shirt as pyjamas, she got into bed. She curled up on her side in the darkness, clutching her wand to her chest with trembling hands, and stared at the floral wallpaper until she grew too drowsy to keep her eyes open._

_When she succumbed to the release of sleep, Draco felt that, too._


	11. Chapter 11

**Apricity – Chapter Nine**

"Try one more time, Mr. Blaise. Using the basic swish-and-flick method."

Someone cleared their throat. With a shaky voice, they said, " _Exsuscito_."

Like a bolt of lightning cracking through the darkness, Draco's body went rigid and his eyes snapped open. He gasped as he felt air entering his lungs, relief flooding his body as though he hadn't tasted oxygen in millennia. He sat up, clutching a hand to his chest as he glanced around in bewilderment.

All around him amongst the tables were the familiar faces of his Seventh and Eighth Year Divination class. Their expressions were a mixture of varying horror, from mild discomfort to teary-eyed concern. No one seemed able to speak save for Professor Trelawney, who was tutting and muttering to herself about the " _dangers of future-walking while fatigued,_ " and moving towards a sink at the back of the classroom to retrieve water.

Pansy knelt down beside Draco, who's mind felt muddy with confusion. Her brows were knitted together with something he couldn't place. Sorrow? Worry?

Remorse?

"Are you all right?" she asked, voice small. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Twenty . . . ?" Draco searched her eyes, trying to figure out why he was on the floor of the classroom and why the back of his head hurt. "Did I go somewhere?"

"I think so," said Seamus Finnegan, a wariness in his eyes that Draco had seen before. He had never trusted him, and probably never would. "You were out like a light, and muttering things."

"What the fuck was I muttering?" Draco said, feeling disturbed. There was a sea of eyes on him for reasons other than his tattoos, he was on the floor, and he had no idea what had happened.

"Expletives." Blaise crouched down next to Pansy, near Draco's outstretched legs. "A lot of expletives."

"But that's par for the course," Pansy said, and she sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Draco pulled one knee to his chest and combed his fingers through his messy platinum hair. "Sorry for what?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but something like a ripple of magic made its way through Draco's magical core. He sucked in his breath at the sheer, overwhelming power of it, and then groaned. It was almost too much to bear.

"What's happening?" a Seventh Year witch cried, one of the girls with tears on her face. "Is he dying?!"

"Hopefully," another Seventh Year girl muttered.

Draco stared at her, his expression intense and deadpan. He wasn't sure what had happened, and he understood that he was a social pariah, but wishing death? Really?

The witch went pale and turned her face away.

Another ripple, and Draco pulled both knees up. He rested his elbows atop them and buried his face in his hands. The storm inside of his mind was swirling, the smoke and consternation rising up to the top of his heart, making him feel too full. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through the acuteness of it.

Wait.

His eyes snapped open and he lifted his head. He glanced around, ignoring everyone else's expectant expressions, and saw one face missing.

"Where is she?" He turned to Blaise. "Where is Granger?"

"With Madam Pomfrey, in the Infirmary. She was—" He grimaced. "—not as calm as you."

"Not as calm? What do you mean? What do you mean not as calm?" Draco felt panic surging through his system, and he didn't know why. His memory felt hazy. Confused. Like it was thousands of kilometers away. He dug the heel of his palm into his left eye socket, feeling a headache coming on. "What do you fucking mean not as calm, Blaise?!"

"Language in the classroom, my dear boy! Language in the classroom." Trelawney swayed into view, lowering a wooden cup of water down to Draco with her wand. As he snatched it out of the air and gulped it down, she spoke. "Something went array with the vision spell. I don't believe it was you to blame, given that Miss Granger was fatigued. The magic seems to have pulled your consciousness through the cosmos and into her own."

Draco glanced at Pansy, who was smoothing out the back of his blazer. When their eyes met, she looked away again, but took his empty water cup from him. Without a word, she got up and walked it back to the sink.

Odd.

He looked up at Trelawney. "What does that mean? Professor."

Trelawney blinked her owlike eyes, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Dreamwalking. It would seem you and Miss Granger walked a dream together, rather than each of you catching glimpses of your futures—which is what the spell was for." She frowned, then. "I'm still not quite sure how it happened, as the spell is in a different realm of magic than dreamwalking . . ."

Draco felt another wave of magic, this time like a mallet pounding against his skull, and he hissed through his teeth. There was a flash of something behind his broken memory—something solid. Lights. A purse, colored black. A tower.

A tower!

Right as Draco got to his feet, the memories slammed into his head like the Hogwarts Express. He cried out in pain and staggered to the side. Blaise and Finnegan both rushed forward, each taking one of his elbows to help him stay upright. He hung his head, trembling as image after image hurtled past. His eyes were open, but he could see nothing. No color. No grey. Nothing.

"Mate, what's wrong?" He heard Blaise's voice from far away.

"Draco? Draco, are you all right?" Pansy, and her cool hands against his cheeks.

Finnegan to his left, one hand on his elbow and the other on his shoulder. "Just breathe, Malfoy. Whatever it is—just breathe."

Lights. Christmas lights, twinkling on the promenade in Paris.

The Eiffel Tower in the distance, like a dark sentinel of metal and stone.

Floral cream wallpaper from the Victorian era, and a window that overlooked the city.

A ruched red dress, sheer black nylons with a run in the knee. Strappy high heels.

The Weaselbee, with his face stained red with rage.

" _Lavender wasn't as frigid as you. So, who's fault is it that I feel like I can't control myself when you dress like that?"_

Cigarettes. A pub. A dark alley.

The tall man with the hat and the meaty hands.

_"Let's see if you fuck rude, too."_

The pungency of sweat.

Probing fingers.

_"I'll do whatever you want me to do to you. I will, okay?"_

Pain. Pain. Pain.

A wand on the bed.

_"I can't, I can't, I can't."_

Granger.

"Salazar, _fuck_. I have to go."

Draco shoved Blaise and Finnegan away, turned, and booked it out of the room. He had to be there when she woke up. He had no idea what he was going to say, or what he could possibly do to help. He didn't know if she was going to be angry, mortified, or in despair. He didn't know if they were even going to be able to look each other in the eye.

He just knew he had to be there.

* * *

McGonagall wouldn't let him in the Infirmary.

"You don't understand, Headmistress," Draco said, speaking the words slow and careful. McGonagall was in his corner, but she was testy and he didn't want to give her any reason to regret helping him with his parole extracurriculars. Having Head Boy on his school resume could make or break his internship at the Department of Mysteries. "When she wakes up, she's going to need someone there, and I am the only one who—"

"The only one who what, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall cut him off, her voice shrewd as she eyed him over the top of her rimless glasses. "The only one who could cause Miss Granger the most distress? No, I don't think so. Until I hear Professor Trelawney's official report, no one is entering the Infirmary for visitation."

"Fuck," Draco cursed, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Are you _fucking_ kidding me right now?"

"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall said, her brow furrowing with ire. "Do I need to take points from Slytherin?"

Draco's anger, panic, and desperation were pushing his sanity out of orbit.

"I don't give a flying fuck how many points you take away, okay?" he said, eyes wide as he steepled his fingers and pointed at her. "I'm here because Granger is my friend, and she needs my bloody help. If she opens her damn eyes, and I'm not there? She's going to lose her fucking mind. Do you understand me?"

McGonagall stood there, staring at him with her jaw agape. He saw the decisions flying past in her eyes, and he knew he had to be seconds away from detention. Or worse: expulsion.

But Draco was done messing things up. He was done standing by and watching everyone suffer. He was done taking the coward's path. He hadn't gone to Dumbledore for help when he could have saved his life. He hadn't stepped forward to stop his aunt and help Granger when she was screaming in his Drawing room. He hadn't helped support his mother when she was hiding food and staying up in the wee hours of the morning eating it.

He could regret cursing at McGonagall later.

McGonagall put her hands on her hips, her pointed hat seeming to stand straighter as she fixed Draco with a withering stare.

"No one is entering the Infirmary until I hear Professor Trelawney's report," she said through pursed lips. "Off to dinner with you, or off to your common room. I don't care which."

With a sweeping of her robes, she turned and stormed back into the Infirmary, slamming the door shut behind her. A split second passed, and then Draco leapt forward, grabbing the door handle.

A violent shocking pain reverberated up to his shoulder blade. He let out a growl, jerking backward. He massaged his upper arm, glared at the door, and conceded defeat. He was fortunate he hadn't gotten detention for his outburst.

Draco tangled his fingers in his hair, tipping his head back to scowl at the ceiling. This was fucked. This was all so fucked. If Granger woke and realized that he wasn't there . . .

His thoughts trailed off.

Granger _hadn't_ realized he was there. She hadn't known he was inside of her memory. When she woke, would she have any idea at all? Would her memories be delayed, too? Would she even realize that she'd relived her trauma in front of the entire class?

Was he going to have to sit her down and tell her he knew?

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and trudged back down the corridor. There were too many emotions in his heart. Emotions he wasn't used to dealing with. Before the Dark Lord, he'd felt nothing but a conceited sense of pride in himself based purely upon his blood status and family name. Then, after the Dark Lord moved into the Manor, he felt only fear. After the war ended, he felt shame and when his mother died, grief.

Now he felt angry. Frantic. Needy.

He didn't want to think about the awkwardness or the consequences or the explanations that would need to be given. He wanted to be there when she woke up. He wanted her to know that he'd been there—that he'd seen everything and he'd seen how strong she was.

Because when he thought about it, that was what he'd always admired about her, and it was what had made him feel threatened when he was younger. In the face of danger—while she was being attacked—she was thinking on her feet. Offering gold to dragons and saving faeries from iron traps. Figuring out the weaknesses and strengths of her enemies and knowing when to use them.

Her strength was a trait his father always wished Draco possessed, and the more cowardly he was, the weaker his father thought he would become. Draco regretted letting that fear get in the way and control his treatment of her.

He wanted to be her friend.

She needed friends. She needed people around her who weren't going to hurt her and cheat on her. She—

Weasley.

Ron fucking Weasley.

Crackling his knuckles in an absentminded manner, Draco turned and headed for the Great Hall.

As he was stepping off the bridge between the Infirmary and the main castle, Draco was surprised to see Theo coming towards him. He looked nervous, terrified, and panicked, all at once. His robes were open and he, like Draco, seemed ignorant of how cold it was outside.

"Draco!" Theo called, skidding to a halt in front of him. "Are you—was she—"

"I didn't get to go in," Draco said, carding a furious hand through his hair. The breeze from the ravine whipped it forward into his eyes again. "McGonagall's got the doors jinxed. No one's allowed in."

Theo shot a frown behind him, towards the bridge. "What do you—I mean—what—what happened? Like, what happened? Did she—is she okay?"

"Calm down," Draco said, even though he was anything but. "If she was hurt, McGonagall would have told me."

"Well, what happened?" Theo crossed his arms over his chest.

"A spell went array in Divination. That's all. She'll probably be fine."

"No offense, but maybe McGonagall thought you were lying." Theo walked around him. "Maybe she'll let me in."

Something Draco didn't recognize—something acidic and biting—rose up like a tidal wave inside of him. His hand shot out, pressing flat to the center of Theo's chest, and he turned his head to give him a once-over.

"Don't," he said. "McGonagall said no one goes in. I'm Head Boy. If she said no to me, then she'll say no to you."

Theo looked away and when their eyes met again, he was glowering up at him.

"You're Head Boy by sheer luck, and you know it," Theo said.

Draco's mood flashed toward a fiery place. Theo was his best mate, but ever since the incidents on Friday with Granger and the Weasel, something had soured between them. Something that wasn't entirely irreparable, but that felt like one wrong step could make it so.

"Yeah, but I'm still Head Boy. And I said . . ." Draco held his gaze, raising his eyebrows. ". . . What the fuck I said. So let's go back to the castle and go to dinner."

"No." Theo wrenched himself out of Draco's grasp. "I'm sorry McGonagall won't let you in to see her, but the rules that apply to you don't apply to the rest of us. I'm your best mate and I'm happy to be, but I can't keep pretending like we didn't fight on opposite sides of the war. You chose the wrong side, and these are the consequences."

Draco felt Theo's betrayal like a thorn in his heart, and his anger—already volatile—began to boil.

"The consequences?" he bit out through clenched teeth. "What consequences? Not being able to see my friend when she might be hurt?"

Theo shook his head. "For someone who a few days ago was adamant that he didn't care, it sure seems like you care now. You can't do that. You can't just hold people at arm's-length for later. You hated her on Friday and now it's Monday, and she's your friend? And yeah. These are the consequences. You chose the wrong side, and now you don't get to go into the Infirmary and see Hermione."

Draco opened his mouth, about to respond, but Theo was already walking towards the bridge. He watched him go with ire burning hot inside of him.

Theo didn't get it. McGonagall didn't get it. They didn't understand what Granger had been through. They didn't know what Draco had seen in her memory. And neither of them could possibly know the sorts of things he'd seen with the Dark Lord living in his house.

Granger's assault wasn't the first one Draco had seen; she was just the first person that he had the strength to want to do something about the aftermath.

She wasn't going to want Theo when she opened her eyes, and she wasn't going to want McGonagall.

Draco waited there by the end of the bridge, expecting Theo to come trundling back out with his tail between his legs. But when the minutes went on and on, Draco realized with a sinking feeling that Theo might have been right.

Maybe these were the consequences.

And when he marched back to the Infirmary building, opened the door, and saw that no one was in the corridor? He knew that McGonagall had allowed Theo inside. Granger would wake to Theo by her bedside, and not him.

Why did that make him so fucking sad?

* * *

Draco fell asleep on the couch in the Head common room.

He hadn't meant to, but for some reason, the moment his head hit the pillows, exhaustion barreled into him. It was in his mind and his magical core, weighing him down into the cushions. He stretched out, crossed his ankles, and laced his fingers behind his head. All of about two seconds passed by for him to think to himself that Trelawney's "dreamwalking" nonsense must have drained his magic reserves, before he passed out.

There were no dreams this time.

He woke in the darkness to the sound of the common room portrait closing. His eyes fluttered open. The small measure of surprise he felt at the fact that the Christmas lights weren't on faded when he remembered the reason why they weren't.

And then he remembered everything else.

He sat up, his hair falling into his eyes as he did so. He could just barely make out Granger's small form in the shadows, lingering near the portrait.

The silence felt heavy.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey."

Draco looked at her shadowy form, wondering if she knew what had happened. Wondering if her memories were as dark as his. Wondering if the only reason why he was present in her memory was because of the dreams he'd been having of her for the past five years, and if that meant that she was having them, too.

He stood up.

Who was he kidding? Of course her memories were darker. She lived through it; he had only watched, a prisoner trapped.

"Are you—" he started.

"Have you—"

They stopped and started again.

"I was—"

"Did they—"

Another, longer pause.

"I'm just going to get something to eat," Granger said in a monotone. She cast the spell that turned the Christmas lights on, adding a familiar ambiance to the common room. Draco watched as she traipsed behind the couch and into the kitchenette. He heard her opening the refrigerator and getting a dish out of the cupboard.

He looked at the ground and contemplated confronting her, but what could he possibly say? What could he say to someone whose mind he had been trapped in while she was being attacked? There was no comfort he could offer her. No solace from a past nightmare.

But that was the thing, wasn't it?

The past, and the fact that he couldn't do anything about it.

If he could, he'd go back to the day the Snatchers brought her, Potter, and the Weasel to the Manor, and he'd take a stand for the right side. He'd stop his aunt, and he'd help Granger. He'd go all the way back to the day the Dark Lord tasked him with the cupboard, and he'd choose his own death. He'd go back to the first day of First Year and he'd find a way to be less conceited and more friendly.

If he could mend the past, he'd bring his mother back.

The past was certain. But the present was ever-changing. Tumultuous. Something he could influence. And in the present, he had the power and the control over his decisions. He knew that things could never be the same between him and Granger after what they'd experienced together, regardless of what happened in the present, and regardless of whether or not she knew she'd been harboring his consciousness inside of her own.

Well, they _could_ stay the same. If he wanted them to.

But did he want them to stay the same? _Could_ they? Could he walk the halls of Hogwarts knowing that no matter how safe they were, Granger would never be able to feel that same measure of safety? Salazar, did she even feel safe with _him_ in the common room?

That made his stomach churn. He could never— _would_ never—hurt her like that. He'd done some reprehensible things in his life, but nothing like that.

His thoughts were all over the place, and he wasn't sure how much Granger remembered, but he knew he couldn't waste any time. He needed to talk to her about it. Tonight. Now.

He needed her to know she didn't have to feel as alone as he did.

Draco sighed and dragged his hands through his sleep-ruffled hair, heading towards the kitchen. He shouldered the edge of the wall between the sitting room and the kitchenette, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her stir some sort of pasta in a bowl. He was six-foot-four, but he felt like he was eight feet tall. Granger was so small.

Perhaps she just looked that way now that he worried about her.

"Granger."

Her shoulders jumped. She whirled around, a dripping spoon in one hand and her wand in the other. With a hard swallow, she nodded to him.

"Did you need the kitchen? I'll be done in a minute."

"No," he murmured, studying her face and trying not to remember the feeling of her cheek scraping against the brick wall of that building. "I wanted to talk."

Something shifted in her eyes, which she averted from his. She turned back to the pasta.

"About the failed charm in Divination? I think it was my fault. I was fatigued, and Professor Trelawney said—"

"Not about that."

She cleared her throat. "Ah, well . . . I did hear that Headmistress McGonagall wouldn't let you into the Infirmary. I must admit, I didn't believe her when she said you were out there."

"Why?" Draco said, his voice a bit hoarse from slumber. "And which part was unbelievable?"

"The part where you came to visit," she said, lifting the bowl and taking a bite. She turned, cheeks round with pasta, and talked around a mouthful. "Why would you visit me?"

Draco raised one brow. "We both passed out. Maybe I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Granger snorted and took another bite. "A comedian in Slytherin? That's a first."

"And yet there's a comedian in Gryffindor." He narrowed his eyes. "Her jokes could use some work."

"Come off it." She took a third bite, chewing fast and sloppy. "And yes, I know we both passed out. Perhaps it was something in the charm."

"Perhaps."

Except it wasn't. It couldn't be. If it were, everyone in the class would have passed out and walked each other's dreams. Only Draco and Granger had experienced the phenomenon. Now, he just had to figure out if he was the only person who remembered it.

"In any case, I'm sorry she wouldn't let you in. When she assigned you as Head Boy, it wasn't because she thought we were friends. It was because she wanted me to keep an eye on you. Whether we're friends or not, she couldn't possibly know if we don't report it to her."

"I don't need to report anything to anyone," Draco said, forcing himself not to snap the words out. "Have a nice visit with Theo, though?"

"Yes, he was lovely. I'm just sorry you couldn't come in. I just don't think it's believable to anyone that we would be friends."

Something inside of Draco's stomach jerked, and he frowned. He didn't know what to name the emotion—he just knew he was a little bit brassed off at Theo. They weren't seeing eye-to-eye.

"Well, we are," he said, the words falling out of his lips. It wasn't until he said them that he realized it was true. He supposed it hadn't felt as real when they were still just thoughts. But now, it was real.

They were friends.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Stop that." He frowned. "Stop apologizing."

Her response was to eat more. He watched her, the Christmas lights from behind him the only illumination in the kitchenette. Her curls looked limper than usual, and her clothes were rumpled. He was sure it was because she'd been in the Infirmary for hours, depending on what time it was.

She sure could eat.

Draco didn't know how to broach the subject of August 17th, 1998. What if she didn't know he'd been in her memory? What if him bringing it up just made things worse? Maybe she knew she'd relived the memory, but wasn't aware that he'd been there?

"I've got to use the loo," Granger said, setting her bowl on the counter. "Have a good night."

Draco eyed the bowl. Before today, he would have reamed her out for not putting it into the sink and using a charm to set it to wash. But now, he couldn't bring himself to do it. She'd been through enough, hadn't she? He could wash the damn bowl.

He did so as the sound of the bathroom door shutting echoed into the room.

No. He couldn't just pretend like nothing happened. He couldn't pretend he didn't know. He couldn't even look at her without remembering it—remembering how she'd tried to reason with the man by offering herself up to him in other ways. How she pleaded with the man to wait, as though she understood there was no way out and just wanted to gain some sort of control back.

He couldn't act like everything wasn't completely fucking upside-down now. How could he? How could he when he just wanted to . . .

Draco closed his eyes, placed his wet hands on the edge of the sink, and hung his head.

He wanted to hold her, and it felt like a release to admit it to himself. He'd never before wanted to hold anyone other than his mother, but he wanted to hold Granger. If she would let him, he'd hold her for as long as she needed to understand that no one was ever going to do that to her again.

Because Draco would never take a witch's wand from her, let alone _Hermione Granger's_ wand. The fact that Weasley had not only gone back to the hotel room to _drop off_ her bag, but had opened it, held the wand, and left it there?

His fingers pressed into the sink, hard.

He wanted to find Weasley and show him what it felt like to be without his wand. He wanted to rip it out of his hands and snap it in half. Then, he wanted to slam his fist into his face over and over again, until he was unrecognizable. Draco wanted Weasley to suffer ten thousand years for every time Granger had to wash herself in the shower that night. For every minute she spent lying awake, staring at the ugly wallpaper with her wand clutched to her chest like a security blanket.

He was so fucking angry.

Draco dried his hands with a towel by the sink, not bothering to use his wand for any of it. He went to his room and changed into a pair of grey trackies and a white V-neck tee, and then he sat down on the edge of his bed. He traced the memorized outlines of some of the tattoos on his right arm with his fingertips, gazing at his bookshelf until it blurred.

He had to talk to her.

Standing up, he went back out into the hall. The door to the loo was still closed, yellow light filtering out beneath it. She'd only been in there for fifteen minutes and according to her track record, she had at least thirty more to go. He didn't know what she did in there, but something told him that it had to do with what happened in Paris.

Draco sat down on the floor with his back to the wall beside the bathroom door. His legs bent up to his chest, arms on his knees, and one hand gripping the opposite wrist, he settled in. He tipped his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes.

Forty minutes later, the door opened and the light clicked off.

Draco, who had been dozing, jolted awake. He looked up at her, his hair in his eyes.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi." Her brow furrowed. "What are you doing? Did you need to use the loo?"

"Nah," he said, yawning and rubbing his eye with the side of one fist. He stood up, towering over her in the small hallway. "I told you I wanted to talk to you."

The lights in the sitting room cast flickering shadows across her face. Her curls were piled atop her head. She looked exhausted.

"There's nothing to talk about," she said. "I want to go to bed."

Draco felt the last vestiges of his drowsiness dissipating.

Did she remember?

"I don't want you to go to bed," he said, trying to make eye contact with her. "I want you to talk to me."

Her eyes widened, gaze darting down to take in the sight of his tattoos—his neck, his exposed chest above the low neckline of his shirt, his biceps and forearms—and then it lifted back up again.

"I know you're used to getting what you want, Malfoy," she said, tone icy, "but I need to go to bed. I don't have anything to say to you."

She turned to go and without thinking, Draco's hand shot out. He was aiming for her hand, but he missed and grabbed her wrist. There was a moment where he was surprised at how cold her skin was under his own, and then she was whipping around with her other hand up.

 _Crack_.

She slapped him.

Again.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, her tone shrill. "Don't touch me, don't talk to me, and don't be my friend!"

Draco blinked down at her, his cheek stinging. He rubbed his chin, letting out a mirthless laugh. He was angry. Angry that she'd slapped him. Angry at how helpless he felt. But mostly, angry that he was right.

She remembered.

"All right," he said, nodding. "Chill, yeah?"

" _Chill?_ Don't tell me to _chill!"_

"Ay!" He raised his voice. "You just fucking _slapped_ me."

Granger hesitated, lifting one hand as though she were going to reach for him. She drew it back to her chest, and the ire in her face faded into a crestfallen look that Draco couldn't place. She lowered her gaze and when she spoke again, her voice sounded defeated.

"Good night."

"Tch. Yeah," he said, cracking his neck.

She turned and walked back to her room. Right as her hand closed around the knob, Draco called to her.

"If you have any nightmares, my door's unlocked. Or you can call my name." He lowered his chin and viewed her through his lashes. "I'm a light sleeper."

To his surprise, she said, "Okay."

"But if you slap me again? I won't be so nice."

"Okay. I . . . I won't do it again." She sounded like all of the air and steam had rushed out of her. She couldn't even look him in the eyes. He wondered if it was because she knew he knew about her past. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" he murmured, taking a step closer. A curl was in her eyes. For some reason unknown to himself, he wanted to move it.

"Yes," she whispered. "I am."

"Good," he said, and then he sighed. The fire of his anger left him, and he accepted the small win. It wasn't the talk he'd imagined, but it was something. He scratched the back of his head and then curved his hand around the back of his neck to massage it. "Good girl. That's good. Go to bed."

She stared at him like a Hippogriff caught in _lumos_ light, and then practically threw herself into her bedroom.

Draco tore his gaze off of her closed bedroom door a few moments later and went into his own dorm. He fell into his bed, hoping that he didn't have any nightmares of his own.


	12. Chapter 12

**Apricity – Chapter Ten**

November tripped over itself on its way into December.

The snow continued unabated, piling in the windows on Mondays and on the ground on Fridays. Sometimes, it rained, but then the temperature dropped and it turned to snow before the end of the hour. It got to the point where it was often that Draco woke and thought the world would be grey and white forever.

Things with Granger had settled into something that he could only call a "routine." They'd never talked about the memory, and she'd never come to his room at night complaining of nightmares, but there was a certain dynamic that had cropped up between the two.

Draco had stopped bothering her about her dishes, finding that it was best if he just cleaned them himself. Granger stopped yelling at him when he did, even though he saw her shooting him wary looks when he was arms-deep in soapy dishwater.

He wasn't quite sure how to act around her. It wasn't like they'd "talked" before, but now it was even more difficult. She didn't avoid him in the common room, but she was so dead silent that it felt like the silence sucked the air out of his lungs when she was around.

But the routine didn't remain trapped inside the common room.

As the remaining three weeks of November faded away, he found that he hated how much she'd frozen him out. When he went to sleep at night, he still dreamed of her, but sometimes it felt like his subconscious went to war with the dreams. Like the normal, unassuming dreams he'd been having for years were having to fight off the memories of her attack.

He just wished she would talk to him about it.

In Charms, she sat so far from him that it didn't matter, but in Divination, having her be so stone-faced made everything more difficult. From demonstration to looking her in the eyes to sitting at the table with her, it was hard.

The fact that she wouldn't let him in past the metaphorical wall she'd put up between them was the only reason why he hadn't beaten the living shite out of Weasley yet. He didn't need anything to make things worse, and he knew how delicate the situation was. Once he got a chance to talk to her, Weasley was dead. Easy enough.

Until then, he settled for watching her like a hawk.

In the common room, in the Great Hall, in class, in the corridors. No matter where they were, if they were in the same vicinity, Draco watched her. It was different than the incessant staring he'd been doing all year during mealtimes. He was watching _over_ her, just in case. He'd never been the sort to be "protective," but he felt like he was the best person for the job.

Weasley had failed it royally in August, hadn't he?

No one ever tried to come near her or bother her, however it made Draco feel useful just to watch. Weasley kept his distance, usually sticking to the ends of the Gryffindor table and surrounding himself with other friends while Granger stuck to the middle. Usually, she was flanked by female students and friends.

But Draco noticed things about her that he hadn't noticed before.

Aside from the bizarre way her eating habits swung from separating colors on her plate to eating everything in sight, she always had her wand out on the table beside her dishes. She bounced her leg under the table, too—he saw one day when no one sat across from her. On the days where she separated her food, she took measured bites, chewed slowly, and took her time reading the _Prophet_ or her post. On the days where she ate everything, she practically inhaled the food and left immediately after.

But she was safe, so long as he kept his eyes on her. That's what mattered to him right now.

On the second day of December, he walked a few meters behind Granger in the corridor to Charms. She was walking slower than usual, hugging her books to her chest and staring at the ground. It was unlike her, but it seemed like she was tired. He wasn't surprised by that, as she'd been exercising in the living room every morning for the past four days straight.

She was so odd.

As she neared the door, he sped up and reached past her, crowding her as he held the door open for her.

She looked up at him. "Thanks."

"Yeah."

She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his chest, and he caught a whiff of her scent. She always wore a faint perfume that smelled of gardenias. Gardenias were his mother's favorite flower.

When she got into class, instead of walking to her normal seat towards the middle of the room, she took a seat in the far back corner. She pulled out her materials like she usually did, and she looked pale. Her curls were in another pile on top of her head and under her robes, he saw she wore the clingy black cotton trousers and a grey jumper.

She looked exhausted.

Draco sat down in his normal seat beside Pansy, fighting the urge to stare at Granger more than he probably should have. He knew it was barmy—that he wasn't even trying to be subtle—but his mind and body were in a tailspin right now. All he could think about was the memory. It was burned into his brain, a trauma in its own right, and it made him feel like he was falling apart.

He wanted to be there for her, but she wouldn't let him, so all he could do was watch her.

"Hey," Pansy said, dragging the letters out in a sympathetic manner.

Draco's brows twitched together. "Hey."

"Are you doing all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, giving her a strange look. "Are you?"

"I'm great," she said, smiling. It was a genuine smile—the sort she used to give him before the war but that now seemed out of place with her current personality. "It feels like it's been weeks since we've talked."

"What?" His head pulled back. "I have two classes with you and see you five days a week."

"Yeah, but things are so weird right now. Have you mended things with Theo?"

"I don't want to talk about Theo," he replied. Theo and he hadn't spoken since the conversation on the bridge. Draco maintained that out of sheer loyalty, Theo should not have gone into the Infirmary. It seemed to be Theo's sentiment that he owed Draco nothing.

He didn't know why his stomach roiled with anger whenever he thought about it.

"You seem distracted."

"I am distracted," he said, pulling out parchment and quill for the inevitable lecture that Flitwick would be giving them when he arrived. "By you, right now, with your dramatics."

Fully expecting her to lash out at him, he was stunned when her response was to sigh.

"You're right. I shouldn't bother you with them."

Pansy Parkinson was not the type to feel contrite unless she had good reason. Draco could count on one hand the amount of times she'd apologized to him, and three out of four of those times, she'd only apologized for him being offended.

She would have had to do something really wrong to feel like a bother. Something that would make her feel distant from him for the past few weeks—distant enough to ask him how he was faring when they saw each other every day.

What was she hiding?

"If I didn't know any better," he said, turning to narrow his eyes down at her, "I'd say you were acting guilty about something."

"Guilty? I'm not—what would there be for me to feel guilty about?" Pansy rested her elbow on the table, propping her chin on her hand. With her quill, she scratched absentminded circles onto her parchment.

"I dunno," he said. "What are you feeling sorry for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," he echoed.

"Nope. Nothing." She gestured to the door with her quill. "Look—Flitwick's here."

Professor Flitwick trundled in, beginning the lecture with something new. Since it was almost Christmas, he wanted to start the month with some holiday-related charms. Draco recognized most of them as spells either his family had used around the Manor, or spells Granger had used to decorate the common room a month ago, and he felt relieved. Any day where there was no real lecture was a good day in his opinion.

First, they learned a conjuration charm for false snowflakes, haloed angels, and twinkling stars. Then, Flitwick taught them a charm for conjuring and stringing holly up. He asked for a volunteer to demonstrate in front of the class. Granger still had the energy to raise her hand.

Apparently, she already knew this charm, too.

"Welcome, welcome," Flitwick said, smiling up at Granger as she came to stand beside him. "And how is the nerve charm going? Figured out the counter spell yet?"

"Yes, I did," she said, lifting her wand with a small, polite smile. She spoke the incantation and in seconds, boughs of holly began to string themselves along the tops of the walls. The class cheered and gasped in delight.

Draco watched behind laced fingers, his gaze following the weaving boughs. He wondered if the reason she had learned the counter spell was really because she was a swot, and he wondered what drew her to be that way. What was it about her that made her _want_ to learn spells inside and out? If it were him and he were younger, he would have learned the counter spell specifically to wreak havoc on his peers.

What did Granger want it for?

The holly boughs began to sprinkle iridescent, harmless sparkles down the walls, causing most of the class to fawn over her skills in awe. She smiled then, flashing her teeth in a genuine grin, and her gaze washed over the classroom. It fell upon Draco, who held it with an intensity that he hadn't intended, but that made itself apparent of its own accord.

She'd never smiled _at_ him like that before.

"Are you blushing?" came Pansy's whisper to his left.

"What?" He jolted, noticing that his cheeks were warm. "Fuck no. I don't _blush_."

"Mhm," and it sounded like she didn't believe him.

As Granger returned to her seat, Draco noticed that the way she was walking was a bit strange. It was almost like she was swaying, or—or listing towards the left . . .

 _Crash_!

Just like all those weeks ago, when she slammed into the table in the Three Broomsticks, Granger held the heel of her palm to her temple and knocked into the corner of Draco's side of the table. Her feet caught in the pooled hem of her robes and she pitched forward.

It was like second nature.

Draco's right arm shot out, wrapping around the front of her midsection. An _oof_ escaped her lips as she fell into the crease, and he placed his left hand on the right side of her waist to stabilize her. Everyone was staring at them as though she'd just sprouted wings, but for a moment—as she looked at him from underneath her curly fringe with a mortified expression—it felt like they were the only two in the room.

"Good?" he murmured.

"I'm . . . Good," she whispered. "I'm fine. Let go of me."

He did, and she sprung upright lightning fast. Draco turned in his chair to watch her go back to her seat. The pitter-patter of her boots against the stone provided the backdrop to Flitwick's concerned, _"Are you all right?"_ from the front of the room.

"I'm okay, Professor," Granger said, and the chipperness in her tone didn't seem to match the way her hands trembled.

Flitwick resumed class, and Draco turned back to face the front. He felt like his hands were tingling. His arm, his fingertips . . . Any part of him that had touched her.

It had felt right, and that was assuming there was a wrong way to feel in the first place.

Beside him, Pansy cleared her throat.

"What?" he drawled. "What sort of Pureblood would I be if I let a witch tumble to the ground near me?"

"You wouldn't be Draco Malfoy," she said, and her tone was almost fearful. It drew Draco's gaze, and when their eyes met, he was shocked to see that she looked worried. "You've always been the protective sort."

"No, I haven't," Draco spluttered, on the verge of laughter. "Have you lost your mind?"

"The time you jinxed Adrian Pucey for looking up my skirt?"

She was misunderstood. "That was—"

Pansy cut him off. "Remember Seventh Year? When you, me, and Blaise went to Muggle London so you guys could get those matching—the thingies on your forearms—the—"

Draco glared at her, but he remembered. They'd known they would never be able to rid themselves of the Dark Mark, so they'd decided to get black-and-grey anchors twined in frayed rope tattooed on their other forearms to provide some juxtaposition.

"The anchor tattoos," he said in a flat tone.

"Yeah, those! We went to get those, and that drunk Muggle said something to me. You shoved him."

"Nah, come on." He tilted his head back and slightly to the side, looking down his nose at her. "You're kidding. No, you were—"

"In Sixth Year, you walked me to class every day for three weeks straight because I told you I thought I had a stalker."

"I did _not_ —"

"If I hexed her right now, what would you do?"

Draco was torn between Occluding and DisApparating. He rearranged his bewildered facial expression into one that was as smooth as a painting. "Nothing."

Pansy reached for her wand, plucking it off of the table. She twirled it, raising one eyebrow.

"Pansy, I'm serious—are you—?"

"I'm serious." She inhaled, opening her mouth, preparing to cast a spell.

A panic spiked inside of him—one that he couldn't place the origin of—and he fixed her with a ferocious, blazing glare.

"If you jinx her, I swear to Salazar I'll fucking—"

"Why, Draco," Pansy said, challenge woven in her voice. "That's awfully _overprotective_ of you."

Around them, several students' conjured Christmas ornaments were floating about. Distracting though they were, Draco ignored them, knowing that to break eye contact with Pansy was to admit defeat. He didn't know if admitting defeat would make things better or worse.

She smirked. "If you admit you feel overprotective over little Miss Granger, then I won't jinx her."

"I don't fancy Granger."

"Did I _say_ the word 'fancy' anywhere in that sentence?" Pansy glowered. "I said 'overprotective'."

"I fucking hate you, you know that?"

"Yes." Her smirk returned. "And I know you. I know how you hyperfocus and try to fix everything. You seem to think there's something in her that needs fixing. Now, admit it. Admit that you've been staring at her like a dodgy, bloody—"

"Fine," he snarled, teeth gritted. "I'm keeping an eye on her. Happy?"

"Delighted," she said, setting her wand down. "But concerned."

"Stay concerned."

Pansy huffed. "Or you can tell me what's going on."

"All right," he said in a tone that dripped with false syrup. "I will, if you tell me why you've been acting like you did something wrong."

She blanched and turned to face the front. "I'm done."

"Of course you're done."

"No," she said, raising her voice a bit. "No, I'm done."

"Of _course_ you're done. You always check out the minute I win."

" _No_ , this has nothing to do with—"

"It has everything to do with _—"_

"Mr. Malfoy. Miss Parkinson. Something you'd like to share with the class?"

The entire class turned to look at them at Professor Flitwick's words from the podium. Pansy looked livid and embarrassed, all at the same time. Draco threaded his fingers together behind his head and kicked back in his chair.

"Sorry, Professor," he said, unable to stop himself from grinning. He loved winning arguments with Pansy. "You can proceed."

Flitwick blinked. "Thank you for your permission, Mr. Malfoy. Now, class . . ."

Draco tried his best to pay attention for the duration of the period, but he found it difficult. He didn't fancy Granger, but Pansy seemed so sure that he at least cared about her enough to want to keep her safe. Which he did, after what they'd been through together.

And Granger knew. He knew she knew. Why else would she have been so shifty and snappish the night she'd returned from the Infirmary? Draco _knew_ she knew he'd been present while she relived the memory. He didn't know if she had told anyone what happened to her but judging by the way she'd reacted to him in the hallway, she didn't want anyone to know and the fact that he did was not amenable to her.

So, yeah. He was a little overprotective right now. He knew it was improbable for the man who attacked her to ever cross paths with her again, but it didn't stop him from feeling on edge every second of every day now. Sometimes, he wondered if maybe it would be easier to stop denying the fact that he'd had her on his mind in some way since Third Year and just embrace whatever it was that drew him to her. At least then, he wouldn't have to watch over her from afar. He could just be her friend and be there.

There was just one problem.

What was Pansy so contrite about?

* * *

Draco looked up to see Eomer perched upon one clawed foot on the rim of his cup.

He raised one eyebrow, taking the scroll the owl offered to him. It was small—only a quick note of some sort—and when he opened it, the spidery scrawl looked familiar. His stomach flopped with nervousness.

It was from Ryo.

Ignoring Pansy and Blaise as they plopped down across from him for dinner, he unraveled the parchment and scanned it.

_Draco,_

_Forgive the haste with which I send this missive. I find myself a bit concerned about the state of your internship. Unfortunately, out of all 135 employees of the Department of Mysteries, none of my coworkers are willing to take you on. I'm sure you understand._

_But don't worry—I have two contacts at the Japanese Sector of Secrets. They have a similar internship program and perhaps a transfer could be arranged when you're done._

_I have written to the Prime Minister of Magic in Japan to request special permission for you to enter their program. I apologize for doing so without your permission, but these things take time, and your school year is almost halfway completed. The first step after his preliminary approval will be for you to undergo an interview. The interviewer may come here to Great Britain, or they may request a Portkey for you to travel there. Either way, I hope this is amenable to you and if it isn't at this moment, please take some time to think about it._

_This determines your future, Draco._

_Also—have you decided about Christmas? My wife and I would, again, love to have you._

_Best,_

_Ryo_

This was horrible.

It was the worst news he could possibly have gotten.

He knew his future was bleak, but he hadn't realized that out of over one hundred witches and wizards, not a single one would be willing to give him a chance. He knew he would have a tough time settling into a career but becoming an Unspeakable was just about the only thing available for him to do. It awarded the secrecy he needed, and the secrecy the Ministry would want.

And now it was in jeopardy.

The Japanese Ministry was by no means weak—it as one of the most powerful magical organizations in the world. Japan's wizarding world was the only country in the world to not need a defense faction. Their Aurors were localized to handle problems in-country. The last time the Japanese wizarding world had gotten involved in a wizarding war, their spirit magic had wiped out an entire wizarding battalion that had come from Norway to try and claim their land. Draco remembered reading about it in History of Magic Fourth Year—it was in 1325.

But an internship in a country he'd never been to before, knowing only how to speak English and bits of Welsh? While he'd be glad for the fresh start, who was to say the things he learned in Japan would carry over to the British Ministry standards? The Japanese standards were no doubt better and more rigid than British standards, as it was common knowledge that the British Ministry of Magic had been run by buffoonery for the past three hundred years.

There were pros to this development, but there were also cons. Many, many cons.

And if nothing worked out? All he had to look forward to was an empty life at the Manor that no amount of galleons could fill.

"Draco—are you listening?"

Pansy's voice splintered Draco's thoughts, drawing his gaze from the note to her face. She was chewing a bite of her roast beef sandwich, crumbs littering the plate in front of her, and she looked concerned.

"No," he said, voice distant. "I think I've got to go."

Blaise started to speak, but Draco cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Pansy pouted and said nothing. Draco picked up a sandwich, charmed some plastic wrap around it, and left for the Head common room.

Why was his life such a mess?

When he got to the common room, he glanced into the sitting room. It was dark save for the twinkling lights above. He went to the kitchenette and put the sandwich into the refrigerator, feeling like every step took more energy than he had inside of his body.

He felt depressed.

Draco sank down onto the couch with a heavy sigh, tilting his head back so that the base of his skull sunk into the top of the back cushions. He stared at the lights on the ceiling, at the way they twinkled on and off in adjacent patterns.

He wished he could go back in time and make all the right choices.

He ran both hands up through his hair, tangling his fingers in the strands as the despair inside threatened to overwhelm him. He took several deep, shuddering breaths. His eyes stung.

What if he agreed, and the Japanese Prime Minister didn't want to extend the internship opportunity to him? What if Draco went to the interview and couldn't answer the questions well? What if he wasn't proper, or if he sounded unintelligent? How ashamed he would be if his mother were alive and saw what a useless wizard that he was. How few prospects he had.

How he hadn't even been able to help Granger—all he'd been able to do was stand there and watch.

Again.

 _Fuck,_ he thought as a wave of bottomless grief washed over him for the first time in months. He hadn't wept since the day his mother died—the day he'd had to hold it together while he hid her secrets and scrubbed the past away. He didn't want to weep now, while he was in the bloody common room.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, which he felt inside his heart like an acute wrenching. He couldn't cry. It was a waste of time.

_Don't fucking cry._

_It's a waste of time._

_It won't bring her back._

Draco's hands slid to cover his face, his head still tilted back on the couch. He broke down, sobbing so hard that it made his head hurt. It felt unbearable. Endless. Like an ocean tide ripping his feet out from underneath him and forcing him below the surface of his careful façade. It hurt to weep this way—it hurt to fall prey to the loss. It hurt to lose his breath like this.

He wished he could bring her back.

His hands fell to rest beside his thighs, all of the energy he had left leaving his body. Shifting, he prepared to lie down, but was stopped by a crinkling sound. He frowned.

_What . . . ?_

Draco moved again and realized that if he did it with a certain amount of body weight, it moved the cushions. Something was trapped between them and the back of the couch. Reaching in, he pulled it out.

"An empty crisp package?" he muttered, perplexed. "Why the bloody Hell would Granger stick this down the couch?"

For a moment, an uncomfortable sense of familiarity settled upon his shoulders. His mother and her hidden snacks. The reason why she hid them. The late nights. The loo.

He shook his head out. No. There was no way. Not Granger. She was too well-adjusted, too put together.

 _So was mother,_ he thought.

But it wasn't possible. It wasn't something Draco understood in his mother, but he knew enough about both witches to know that Granger was nothing like Narcissa. They'd both experienced their share of pain, but—

Unless.

Draco set the wrapper down and reached in again. He searched the back of the couch and in-between the three cushions. The continued crinkling and crackling started to grate on his nerves as he pulled more wrappers out. It was all Muggle foods, but he recognized them from the photos on their packaging. Sweet and savory—she didn't seem to have a preference. Every single package was empty. Granger had finished them off and stuffed them into the couch.

Why?

 _Shick_.

The portrait swung open and Draco felt his heart leaping up into his chest. Quick as a flash, he used his free hand to wipe his cheeks. He stood up as Granger stepped into the common room. The empty wrappers discarded all over the couch stood out, shining under the Christmas lights. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyeing them.

And said nothing.

Draco was confused. Was she not humiliated, or at the very least, did she have an explanation? Hiding food wrappers was bizarre. There was just _no_ possible way that Granger had the same issue with food that his mother had possessed—his mother was so _clean_ , whereas Granger was downright filthy.

Well—not _her_ —just her mannerisms.

"Care to explain?" he said, roughening his voice to mask that he'd just been weeping.

"No." She walked closer to him and dropped her books and bag onto the coffee table. She seemed shorter than usual, but perhaps that was in his mind. When she straightened her back, she glared up at him. "Before you start in on me—yes, I'm messy. We've established it. So, just move and I'll throw them out."

Draco saw her reach to pull her wand out of the sleeve of her robes, and he forgot himself and their circumstances. He started to move toward her. A flash of panic entered her eyes—something he never would have recognized had he not walked her memory—and she whipped the tip of her wand up into the underside of his chin. It pressed into the flesh, stinging, but he ignored it.

"I told you not to touch me," she hissed, eyes blazing.

"I wasn't going to touch you," he growled. "I was just—look, I wasn't going to start in on you. I just wanted an explanation. You—"

"Well, you're not going to get one!" she cried, her voice suddenly shrill and her eyes wild. She took a step back, her wand arm trembling. It seemed as though she couldn't look at the wrappers. Like she was ashamed of it.

 _She should be,_ he thought, feeling bitter. _Why the fuck would she stuff rubbish into the couch?!_

"I don't have time for this," she whispered, sounding like she was floating somewhere between anxiety and rage. " _Evanesco_."

"You had time to stuff them in there," Draco said, crossing his arms. "Yet you don't have time to tell me why?"

"Just _shut up_ , Malfoy!" she shrieked, causing Draco to flinch back in astonishment. "Just shut up! Stop policing everything I do! I can't . . ." She made a frustrated sound through bared teeth, hands in fists as she stomped one foot. " _Take_ it anymore! The dishes, the dishes. Every day, it's the dishes! It's the books and the papers and the trash in the couch and the fact that I'm in the loo for too long! Can't you just leave me alone?!"

Draco opened his mouth to ask her what policing meant but stopped himself. By the look on her face, the ruddiness of her cheeks, and the way he could see her arms trembling, she was not in a right state. And knowing what he knew about Paris—remembering how she'd fallen apart on the floor of that hotel room with the knowledge that her wizard had kept her wand from her with intent—he knew better than to let his anger control him at this moment.

" _I can't, I can't, I can't."_

He was aggressive and he was controlling and he was by no means perfect, but he never wanted to be angry with her again. Salazar knew she had enough rage burning inside of her for the both of them.

"Granger, take a fucking second, will you?"

She paused mid-rant, sucking in her breath and holding it. Her hands were shaking so much that her fingers were curled.

She didn't look okay at all.

Draco took a cautious step toward her, gaze bouncing back and forth between her frenzied eyes and clenched hands. He'd never been in this situation before and he didn't know exactly what to say. He just knew that whatever she said, he needed to counter it.

"Let out your breath," he said. "You're going to get lightheaded."

"You're not supposed to be in here," was her reply, and it came out as a borderline sob. "Why aren't you at supper?"

"Does it matter? _Breathe_."

She exhaled right as Draco inched closer to her. They were between the coffee table and the couch, and he could smell the scent of her perfume. The Christmas lights illuminated her face, just like they had in the kitchen the night she'd cried over the Weaselbee.

"I don't have time for this," she said under her breath, shaking her head. "I don't have time for this. I don't have time."

"You have time," he said, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. He took another step, and he was right in front of her. With a slow, smooth pace, he lifted his hands to grab hers for the first time. Left hand pressed to her right; right hand pressed to her left. He wrapped his fingers around them, feeling how rigid they were in her panic.

She tried to pull away but he held tighter, his forefingers curving around the back of her palms. His thumb dug into her pressure points, a place his mother had shown him to be calming during the times that he felt panicked during the war. He wanted to soothe her, but at the same time, he wasn't sure why. Was he in denial? Did he fancy her? Or was this just a result of being present in the midst of her traumatic memory?

He was also apprehensive. The last time they'd been alone together, conversing, she'd struck him in the face. What if she slapped him _again_?

"Calm down."

"I don't want to be calm." Her head rocked from side to side. "I don't—"

" _Calm_ ," he murmured, raising his chin, " _down_."

"No, I don't— _Malfoy—_ " She ripped her hands away, her panic levels rising in her eyes again. " _I don't want to be calm!_ I told you to leave me _alone_!"

Before he could do or say anything else, she shoved past him and locked herself in the loo.

Draco scowled, dropping his head back and scrubbing at his face with his hands. She was insufferable. She was a _nightmare_.

Why the _fuck_ did she put food wrappers into the couch?!

His dorm room door slammed shut moments later.


	13. Chapter 13

** Apricity – Chapter Eleven **

Draco avoided her.

He hadn't _wanted_ to. He'd been trying to get her to a place where they could talk about the memory for weeks, so for him to just give up wasn't like him.

Except that it was.

It _was_ in-character for him to give up on people. It was in-character for him to put way too much of himself and his energy into things, only to completely fail and burn out as soon as he reached the finish line. It was in-character for him to try and try and try with his father, only to stuff his letters into a chest on his dresser.

The loneliness had become chronic in the way it pervaded his very existence. Like threads of shadows woven in amongst his snark that he wore like a cloak to shield himself from anything and everyone that could hurt him. Because at his foundation, Draco knew that he was a creature of fear, and that the only reason why he threw so much of himself into his tasks was because he was scared of what would happen if they failed. In contrast, the reason why he only put half of himself into relationships with people around him was because he was scared of what would happen if they left. It was the same reason why he chose Voldemort over Dumbledore.

He was a coward.

So, he avoided her. He kept his distance and alternated the times he left his dorm room so that he didn't have to look her in the eyes and admit that he was terrified. He was terrified of his emotions—of the way his dreams of her had influenced his life for so long. How the dreams simultaneously made him feel more qualified to watch over her than anyone else, and less qualified because he'd watched Bellatrix torture her and hadn't done anything about it.

And when he really thought about it—what was he avoiding her for? It wasn't like he'd kissed her in an alcove after the Yule Ball and avoided her for five years, or anything.

Draco knew the truth, though. He knew it was because he'd gone too far. He'd let his guard down and _comforted_ her. And what was worse: he _wanted_ to. He _wanted_ to go to her and comfort her. He just didn't know why.

Avoiding her meant avoiding the answer.

On the second Tuesday in December, Theo finally approached Draco at breakfast.

The two of them hadn't spoken in weeks, their argument near the bridge having been something that made Draco feel less interested in talking to him. He knew there were people who disliked him or thought ill of him, but having his best friend think less of him was irksome.

It hurt.

When Draco looked up from his egg scramble to see Theo sitting down across from him, he'd raised an eyebrow to cover up the fact that he was Occluding with the quickness. He'd viewed his friend in silence that was stoic, wondering what he could possibly have to say to him after their last conversation.

"I—Well, I apologize," Theo said, grimacing as he rubbed the back of his neck. "For what I—for what I said."

Draco felt the awkwardness stretching between them like a tense band. "Are you?"

"Yeah." Theo's eyes searched his. "I was cruel."

It wasn't like Draco wasn't used to cruelty.

"It's brill," Draco said, shrugging one shoulder as he stabbed eggs with the tines of his fork. "You were being honest, and honesty is key."

Theo pursed his lips. "Yeah, but there's honesty and then there's _honesty_. I eviscerated you."

"You eviscerated me." Draco rested his elbows on the table and let the fork dangle from his fingers while he chewed and scrutinized his friend. "But you were right. We're best mates, but it's imbecilic to pretend like the war never happened. We had the same choice—you picked the right one."

Theo shifted, looking uncomfortable as he plated up some food. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't a choice for me."

Draco averted his eyes, feeling the tenson increase. He didn't like hearing that. He didn't like being reminded of the fact that he had such a proclivity for darkness that he'd had to _choose_ between a madman and peace.

That shouldn't have been a choice at all.

"I'm rubbish," he said with another shrug. "What else is new?"

"Come off it. You know you're not—"

"Just stop." Draco dropped his fork with a bit of a clatter, his irritation rising. "If you feel like apologizing, so be it. But let's not turn this into a mind healing session. I'm eating."

The two boys held each other's gazes for a moment, engaging in a battle of wills and silence, before Theo conceded. He withered like a flower beneath Draco's icy glare. His hands went up near his chest.

"Whatever you say, mate." He ate a bite of buttered toast and then around a mouthful said, "So what have you been up to?"

They spent the majority of breakfast catching up. Theo's life had been much less eventful than Draco's had been, and he seemed to be unaware of the fact that Draco was keeping his information close to the breast. One thing he found interesting was the fact that Theo did not mention Granger.

". . . and I think I'll just write the essay on the Goblin Wars, or something," Theo was saying as he peeled his orange. "It's not as if it's going to be difficult. The last thing I want to do is write a bloody essay during holiday when I'd rather be eating like, sweets or something. You know what I mean?"

Draco just stared at him. "Theo, when have I _ever_ done homework on holiday?"

"Never. Which is why I know you'll support me writing an Eighth Year essay on a Second Year topic."

They exchanged glances. Theo laughed. Draco hid a smirk, spearing more eggs.

"So, how's things going with Granger?"

Draco sipped his apple juice, stifling the urge to cough as it nearly went down the wrong side of his throat. "There's no things to be going."

"Don't play coy." Theo popped an orange slice into his mouth and grinned. "Just admit you fancy her already. It hurts less."

"I don't fancy her."

"You lie."

Draco narrowed his eyes, casting a few surreptitious glances to the left and right. They had a bit of space between them and the rest of the Slytherin students, but it wasn't much. "I truth."

"You care about her. You care about what happens to her."

"I—" He paused. There was no harm in caring about her, was there? They were friends. They were friends, and friends cared what happened to one another. That was okay. "Yes. I care about her."

"Do you find her like, _annoying_ to be around, or do you think she's easy to sit with? Like, could you—for a second, just imagine you're in a—a library or something. Could you sit and study with her, or would that bother you?"

"Inherently, yes it would bother me," Draco said. Under his breath, he added, "The air of swot around her would become insufferable."

"So you wouldn't study with her?"

Draco looked him directly in the eyes. "If someone told me they'd slit my throat and murder me in my sleep, I still would not study with Hermione Granger."

"Harsh."

"The woman has slapped me in the face three times, Nott."

"Ooh." Theo's eyes went wide and he held the side of his fist over his mouth. "That's—that's not brill."

"Not brill at all."

"Well, do you think she's pretty?" Theo's brown eyes glittered like Slytherin silver. "Because it's okay if you do. I mean, if you think she's pretty, there's nothing wrong with that. She's rather fit these days, and she's got a nice smile."

"Yes, I suppose she . . ." Draco trailed off, fork frozen. What was with all of the questions? _And why do they feel like they're wrapped in barbed wire?_

Theo said, "What? Why are you—what do you—why are you looking at me like that?"

"Cheeky ponce," Draco said with a sneer. "I told you I don't fancy her. Why do you keep trying to get me to admit something that isn't true and holds _no_ bearing on your life?"

He said nothing, offering Draco only a shrug as he tucked into his porridge. As he ate, Draco watched the way he seemed to keep pushing his wavy hair out of his eyes—his eyes, which he kept carefully averted from Draco's own. He looked uncomfortable.

Why did Theo keep trying to get him to admit it? It held no bearing on his life.

Unless it did.

"Do _you_ fancy her?" Draco asked, feeling a familiar twisting in his stomach.

"Huh?"

"What?" _Is he ignoring me?_

"What'd you say?"

Draco scowled. "I know you're not going to pretend like you didn't hear me asking you."

" _What_? I didn't _hear_ you!"

Yeah, right.

Draco said, "Do _you_ fancy her?"

"No."

"Well, neither do I."

Draco's gaze slid to the right, moving on past Theo's head and across the Great Hall. It landed on Granger at the Gryffindor table. She was sitting on one end of it, a book floating in front of her face while she ate from a plate piled high with ham, eggs, a couple of muffins, and assorted fruits.

The amount of food didn't shock him anymore. Her appetite seemed to fluctuate between extremes every day. She was wearing her robes today and her normal school uniform underneath it. It looked a little loose on her, but that could have just been his imagination.

Why did it feel like he and Theo were both lying?

"Hey, Draco. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Blaise entered Draco's vision, breaking his line of sight with a strange expression on his face. He wasn't wearing his robes, and instead had on only a green jumper and black trousers.

"Yeah," Draco replied. He gestured to the spot beside Theo, who scooted aside to let their mutual friend in. "What about?"

"So, you know how Pansy and I went to Diagon a while back?" Blaise said, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Theo's and Draco's faces.

"Yes," Draco said slowly, feeling a bit apprehensive. He pushed his plate away.

"Well, I'm not sure if she told you, but we ended up going to Knockturn for a while and shopping around. There was a concert we went to, too."

"Muggle?"

"Yeah, actually. In Muggle London. I got this because I liked the one on the back of your hand so much." Blaise lifted his arm and pushed his sleeve back. Draco peered down and saw that he'd gotten a new tattoo. Blaise didn't have anywhere near as many as Draco, so the thorned rose stood out against his umber skin. Draco's rose was on the back of his left hand, and while they were the same thing, the art styles were very different.

"Looks good," Draco said. "Did you go to—"

"No, it was . . . Someone else. Okay, you know over by the . . ." Blaise shook his head and pulled the sleeve back down. "You know what, no. That's not important. This is."

Draco's head pulled back on his shoulders, his heart skipping a beat. That didn't sound good.

Blaise continued, "We went to Borgin & Burkes. Did she tell you that?"

Draco frowned, wondering why on Earth Blaise was asking him, and why everyone had so many damn _questions_ for him today. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't remember if she had. He looked at Theo, as though he might know, but received only a shrug from him. Blaise looked at them both with a grimace.

"No, I don't think so. Er—at least, I don't remember." Draco replied. "Why?"

"Let me ask you something." Blaise folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. "Do you like Granger? And I mean, in a general sense. Like, is she your friend or anything like that?"

"I—"

"He fancies her," Theo said, his tone chipper as he ate the final slice of his orange.

"I'm going to shave your head, Theo, if you don't shut the fuck up about that," Draco snarled, baring his teeth in his friend's direction. Then, to Blaise he said, "I don't fancy her, but she's an acquaintance. She considers me a friend, apparently."

"All right," Blaise said, sounding suspicious. "Well, when we went to Borgin's, Pansy was kind-of . . . Well, sort-of _ranting_ a bit. She—"

"Ranting?" Draco cut in. "What do you—'

Theo interrupted. "What do you mean by _ranting_? What is—what is _ranting_ in this context?"

"Well, you know." Blaise exchanged glances with Draco like the blond knew what the bloody Hell he was on about. "Ranting. Like, angrily spouting off."

"Angrily spouting off," Draco repeated. "Talking shite?"

"Yeah, she was talking shite."

"About—"

"About Granger," Blaise said. "She doesn't like her."

"Obviously," Draco said with a snort. "So, what does that have to do with Borgin & Burkes?"

"You know how they sell fey tea? Like from the Seelie Court fey?"

Theo and Draco were the ones to exchange glances now, both appearing equally interested and confused. What the fuck was he talking about? What did fey tea have to do with anything?

"I mean, I know they sell all sorts of ilk," Draco said, still frowning. "What's it got to do with Granger?"

Blaise shifted, looking more uncomfortable. "Let's just say that Pansy was _very_ intrigued by that tea."

"Very intrigued by that tea?" Draco repeated. He looked at Theo, and their faces contorted with their puzzlement. "What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I give a flying fuck what sort of tea Pansy's into? What does—"

 _Hoo! Hoo_!

Just then, the windows opened and in came the morning post. Hundreds of owls winged into the Great Hall, each carrying something for a different student. Parcels, letters, and scrolls began to rain onto the tables. Draco saw several broom-shaped packages landing in front of Quidditch team members across Houses. An owl dropped Theo a small package that he exclaimed with enthusiasm was from his mother who was on an Auror mission in Brazil.

Eomer landed on the rim of Draco's cup, just like last time, and stuck his clawed foot out. Draco pet the top of his head and gave him a grape. Then, he accepted the small scroll tied to his ankle. He unrolled it, his hands shaking a bit.

He could be holding his future.

"Who's that from?" Theo asked after showing them the glass souvenir his mother had sent.

Draco's eyes scanned the parchment, saying nothing as he read the words.

_Draco,_

_I hope you're well. I bring great news! I apologize for the lack of pleasantries, but I was so ecstatic that I had to write to you immediately._

_A representative for the Japanese Prime Minister of Magic has written me to tell me that he has agreed to assess you for their internship program. They have scheduled an interview for you on December 23_ _rd._ _The representative from the Sector of Secrets will be Portkeying here to Great Britain, and the interview will be held in my home._

_Wear your best and remember that Japan is a neutral country. They won't care what you did during the war, nor will they pay heed to what crimes you were charged with as a result of it. The representative will only want to know what you can bring to the program and what you hope to learn from it._

_So, looks like you'll be here for Christmas after all! I hope you'll consider staying longer than just for the interview._

_I hope you're as enthusiastic about this as I am. Please write back to me with an answer soon!_

_All my best,_

_Ryo_

"I've got to go," Draco said, swinging his leg around so he could get up from the bench. Eyes still on the parchment, he ignored Theo and Blaise's calls after him and left the Great Hall.

He needed to write a letter.

O

"McGonagall wants you to do rounds."

Draco looked up from his book. Granger stood behind the couch, arms crossed over her chest and her right-hand fingernails tapping her upper arm. She'd just walked in.

Dinner had ended hours ago, which he had finished much earlier. He'd only been able to eat soup, the nervous twisting in his stomach causing him to feel less hungry than usual.

He'd written Ryo, of course, and told him yes to both Christmas at his estate and the interview. He knew that this was his best chance at the future he dreamed of, and even if he was a bit anxious to spend one-on-one time with Ryo and his family, he had a feeling that this holiday would bring good things.

If only he had someone to tell.

Brushing memories of his mother behind a curtain of Occlusion, he stood up from the couch, turning to look down at Granger. Her hair was in buns again, this time with no loose curls. The thin hairs at her hairline were positioned in those same swoops that he remembered seeing in her memory.

"With you?"

She gave him a sour look. "Yes, _with_ me. Is that an issue?"

"Is that an issue with _you_?"

"Why are you asking _me_ that?" She scowled. " _You're_ the one that's been avoiding _me_."

Draco hadn't realized that she would notice. Avoiding her was juvenile, especially given that their spat was hardly his fault. But it was difficult to look her in the eyes when it felt like he was sitting on a rather large piece of information, even if the information belonged to her. Even if the information was painful to know.

It wasn't as painful for him as it was for her.

"What did she say?" Draco said, raising his arms above his head to stretch.

"She noticed that you haven't been doing them much, and she wants me to remind you that it's part of your duties as Head Boy. And if you don't do it, then she has to report that you're being uncooperative to your parole Auror."

Draco rolled his eyes and sunk his fingers into his fringe to scratch his hairline. His hair was getting messy with how long it had grown, the ends tickling his earlobes. His father would have made him cut it.

Naturally, he was leaving it the way it was.

"Fine, I'll do it," he said.

"Okay."

Draco moved around the couch and walked over to her, aiming for the area where he set his footwear on a wooden rack against the wall. She watched him with a curious expression.

"Aren't you going to get dressed?" she asked.

"Nah," he said, slipping his feet into his slippers. He was wearing a black tee shirt and dark grey trackies—his typical nightclothes. "I'm going in my pyjamas, or I'm not going at all."

Before she could react, he pushed past her and went out through the portrait.

They started rounds in silence. Draco kept a bit of distance between them, finding that he felt strange. The storm of colorless anxiety that usually kept him on edge seemed to have quieted in her presence. His dreams had continued through the time he'd avoided her, feeling both more draining and hazier than usual. Like she was a figment of his imagination, and not a real person that he shared a common room with.

As they walked, he found that he couldn't stop sneaking glances in her direction. She was still wearing her school uniform but no robes, and her hair buns looked the same as they had that morning. She looked tired—beleaguered, really—however nothing about her gave him any sort of hints as to her mental state regarding what happened in Paris.

It was weird, walking alone with her down dimly-lit corridors like this. It was bizarre knowing what she had experienced and seeing that she seemed unfazed by it. A corridor wasn't much different than an alleyway, and she was alone with an ex-Death Eater.

Was she frightened?

He felt a chill of discomfort running down his spine. He passed the back of his hand across the side of his nose, looking off to the left side of the corridor. He didn't like to think about that. Draco knew he would never hurt her. In fact, the thought made him nauseous. Nauseous and angry, but not _at_ her. Angry _for_ her.

He wondered if the man who'd assaulted her could be located in some way . . .

"I don't know if anyone's going to be sneaking around tonight," Granger said matter-of-factly when they were thirty minutes in and wandering the fourth floor corridor. "Everyone's been so focused on the upcoming end-of-term exams."

"Trust me on this, Granger," Draco said. "Exams won't stop them. If someone wants to snog, they will find a way."

She shot him a look. "You would know. I'm sure you found a way come rain or shine."

"I _would_ know," he said, his lips twitching. "What is that thing you do with your hair? There, by your hairline. Is that intentional?"

"You mean my—my edges?" She reached up as if to touch them, then lowered her hand again. "Yes, I did it on purpose."

"Oh. Is that something people with curly hair do?"

She gave him a strange look. "It's something Black girls do. We lay them flat and shape them."

"I see. Why?"

Another perturbed look. "Because it's cute."

"Yeah, it looks good."

Wait.

Had he just said—

 _Fuck_.

She side-eyed him. "Thank you."

They'd made it to the fifth floor. It was a bit drafty, but not nearly as bad as the second floor had been. Peeves had been bouncing off the walls down there, and the ghost's aura had made it as cold inside as it was outside. Draco didn't care to be doing rounds at all, but he didn't want to walk in complete _silence_ with her. It made things more awkward, and it made it more difficult for him to ignore the way he felt inside.

The curiosity was a mask. What he really wanted to ask her would only cause problems.

"I, um—I like your tattoos," Granger suddenly said, the words tumbling out rushed and quiet. "If we're sharing compliments."

Draco's heart raced for reasons unknown to him. He supposed it was because he didn't get many compliments on them unless he was at the shop in London and it was someone there. He arched an eyebrow down at her.

"Which ones?"

She frowned. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Yeah."

"Good, because you have like, 3500 of them."

"Yeah."

Silence prevailed, broken only by their footsteps on the stone. Then, Granger cleared her throat.

"I guess I have a couple of . . . Favorites," she said, stammering in a way that was unlike herself. "I like the ones on the backs of your hands, especially the rose. And I like the anchor on your forearm. I suppose—Well, I like the—the sort-of extravagant one you have on your chest. With the clock and the wings."

"You were looking at my chest?" he said, his voice coming out in an accidental purr. He hadn't meant it to, but for a moment, he'd forgotten he was talking to Granger.

It felt like they were flirting.

"Not on purpose!" she cried, stopping for a moment. He kept walking, so she ran to catch up. "It was an accident."

"An accident."

"Yes," she said. It sounded like she was bordering on a whine. "I wasn't _looking_ at you, or anything. But when you wear the shirts with the v-shaped necks, then—well, it's hard not to look, Malfoy."

"Don't pout," he said. "You'll get frown lines."

"I'm only eighteen. I'm not going to get _frown lines_." Another scowl. "Well, that's the last time I ever compliment a—"

"Which is your top favorite?" he cut in, forcing himself to sound nonchalant.

"What?"

"Which tattoo do you like the best?" He looked down at her, both of them coming to a silent mutual decision to stop walking.

"The ones on your neck," she said, her gaze falling down to where he knew both of his neck tattoos and parts of his chest piece were visible. "The chains and the little roses—they're very . . . Well, the art is quite beautiful. What does it represent?"

He took a moment to respond, finding that he'd accidentally been staring at the way her normally honey-brown eyes seemed to look onyx in the lantern light. Then, he had to think about his answer. He didn't want her to know what they represented, given that the tattoo was his response to his failure at the Manor. But the fact that they were her favorites tattoos of all the ones he had?

Hearing her say that made it feel more satisfying to have them littering his body. To have them decorating it like adornments on a Christmas tree. He sort of felt like they were . . .

Worth it.

"They represent feeling strangled," he said, choosing his words as carefully as though he were plucking agates off of the ground. "And trapped—like I'm choking and can't move."

"And the roses?"

_You. You. You._

"Just . . . The aesthetic," he lied, feeling the heat of mortification rushing to his cheeks.

"Oh, okay," she said. "That's . . . Well, that's quite lovely, actually."

"Do you have any?"

"Any what? Any tattoos?" She let out a small laugh. "No. Not yet."

"Yet?" He perked up. "So you're not against them?"

"No, I'd get one or two. I have some in mind that I'd do, actually."

"Seriously?" Draco felt his mind whirling with the excitement of finding another magical person who actually _liked_ tattoos. There was Blaise, of course, but it wasn't the same as a _witch_ finding it interesting. It meant Granger didn't see him as a criminal. "Are you being serious right now?"

"I mean, yeah," she said, appearing bemused where she stood. "I would get one on my collarbone, and then I want one on my forearm."

The excitement wrenched into a knot. She didn't have to tell him which forearm.

"Yeah, okay," he said, cracking his neck to try and shake off the shameful memories of himself facing the fireplace and ignoring her screams. "Maybe one day, we could go to my tattoo artist and . . ."

He trailed off into a silence that ensued for a solid three seconds.

"I mean, we could," Granger said before she resumed walking down the corridor. "This floor is clear, it looks like. Let's hurry and finish so we can get back."

Draco stood there for a moment, cursing himself underneath his breath. What was he thinking? He and Granger going to get tattoos? _Hermione_ Granger? It was absurd.

But then again, everything regarding her was absurd now.


	14. Chapter 14

** Apricity – Chapter Twelve **

The walk back to the Head common room felt long.

And it was, when Draco really thought about it. To go from the top floor to the first to return usually took him twenty minutes by himself. With Granger's short legs, it was going to take the two of them even longer to make it back.

Which was perfect.

He was going to ask her about the Weaselbee.

"I'm honestly quite surprised Minerva let you go so long without doing rounds," Granger was saying as they padded along. "When was the last time you did them? September?"

"Minerva?" he said, running his fingers through his messy platinum blonde hair. "Awfully familiar of you, don't you think?"

"It's not like that," she said.

"Of course it is," he said, eyes scanning the corridor as though he were looking for something. "You're Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl." He gave a gentle wave of both hands in the air to emphasize her accolades. "You _would_ refer to the Headmistress by her first name."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" she asked, her steps slowing a bit as the tension ramped up a few notches.

Draco tried not to smirk. "You're _extremely_ easy to rile up, you know that?"

"Well, when you insinuate that the professors play favorites with me based upon some—some strange preconceived notion that you've been holding towards me since we were like, _twelve . . ._ It gets a little infuriating."

At this, he allowed himself to give the air in front of him a half of a smirk. "A little?"

"A _lot_ , actually. You don't 'rile me up.'" He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "You brass me off. There's a difference."

"Fuck." He laughed, unable to stop the sound from bubbling out of his chest. "You're not wrong."

When he glanced over at her, his smile still fading, he was surprised to see her lips twitching. She turned her head for a moment, as quick as she could, and then a mask of haughtiness washed over her face.

"I call her Minerva because she's like a second mother to me. And since I'm lacking a first one right now, she's the closest thing I have. She's not just a Headmistress to me. She's . . . Er . . . Oh."

The silence seemed to ring. Draco understood without her having to say anything that she'd just given him more information than she wanted to. Which he knew firsthand didn't feel too great, but at the same time—he didn't think any differently of her. In fact, the more he thought about it, the lighter his steps felt.

Granger had just told him personal information. Like an acquaintance or a—a _friend_. It was unintentional, but it meant that for a second, she'd felt like she could.

"I understand," Draco said, remaining cautious. He wasn't exactly in the mood to bleed his heart, but he knew if he ever had a shot at getting Granger to at least _talk_ about the memory, he had to start somewhere. "If I had a chance at a second mother, I believe I'd take it, too. Is she . . . ?"

"No," Granger said, her tone flat. "She's alive. I don't want to talk about it, though."

They stood on a moving staircase, headed down to the fourth floor. It was cold, but Draco didn't mind the feeling of the cool air upon the bare skin of his arms. It was comfortable walking the castle in his pyjamas in the odd way it felt to walk around barefoot at home when he was younger. The soft _schlepp_ ing noises of his slippers against the stone were a strange comfort in a distant way. Like he was home, but aware that it wasn't _home_ -home.

He looked down at Granger and felt his stomach beginning to churn.

It was difficult to see her there, standing with her hand on the railing and her face forward, shoulders back and standing tall. Difficult to see her look no different now than she did before the events of August 17th.

When he looked at her, it was hard for him not to see past the façade and remember the feelings of fear and helplessness. The hope when she tried to talk her way out of it, and the resignation when she realized she couldn't. The pain when she cried on the floor at the foot of the bed. The numbness when she showered.

Granger was and always had been as strong as stone to him. That was why he'd tried so hard to chip away at her. He'd thought that in flame, she would be forged into diamond. But there they were—the cracks running throughout. She looked like a diamond on the outside, but inside, he knew she had to be floating in a zirconian fog.

He at least understood that.

Though Draco had never been the emotional sort, he felt something gut-wrenching for her. It wasn't hatred. No, it was something he couldn't quite place. The best way he could think to explain it was having the desire to hold her hand and caress her skin, while also wanting to murder anyone who looked in her direction.

And that terrified him because he still didn't. Know. _Why_.

"If it makes you feel any better," Granger said as the staircase neared the landing, "my friends don't call her by her first name, so it's not like it's a _Golden Trio_ sort of debacle. You don't have to worry that Harry only graduated because she let him, or that she's padding Ron's transcripts for the Auror Department. Or whatever barminess you come up with to justify hating us."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, crossing his arms and leaning back against the railing. He was so tall that he could almost perch on the banister without effort, but he didn't fancy plummeting to his death so he remained with his feet flat on the steps.

"I don't _hate_ Potter," he said. "I don't particularly want to be his best _mate_ , but I don't hate him."

"Anymore."

"Yes, anymore."

The staircase docked, lurching to a stop. It wasn't fast or violent, but for some reason, Granger let out a gasp and pitched forward.

Draco gave no second thoughts—he reached out and grabbed her hand.

Their skin pressed together and he felt a familiar storm of grey beginning to swirl in his vision again, like it had been sleeping and was now awake again. He wrapped his fingers around hers and yanked her upright before she could fall. As he did, he saw that her other hand was pressed against her left temple.

"All right?" he murmured.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice seeming to become swallowed up by the room. Her palms were colder than the air and the contrast caused him to give her hand an involuntary squeeze. "I just felt a little faint. Poor timing."

"Ah," he said, pulling her onto the landing with him.

She cleared her throat. "My—my hand."

"Faint, you say." He didn't let go. "You seem to feel faint often."

"Wh-what? No, I . . . Can you just—my hand."

Draco narrowed his eyes, a new suspicion arising. "Why are you deflecting?"

"Deflecting? I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You nearly face-planted in the Three Broomsticks, and—"

" _Malfoy, let go of my hand_!" she cried, her voice echoing. The suddenness of her shrieking startled him, and he let go of her as though she'd caught fire. She glared up at him while she rubbed her fingers in anxious motions. "Just . . . Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me unless I say it's okay."

Draco wanted to die for the shame that burned in his heart. Of course she wouldn't want to be touched. What the fuck was he thinking?

A month ago, he would have been offended that she didn't want his skin touching hers. But now, he understood.

"If you ever asked, I'd think something had come loose up there," he said, tapping the side of his skull with one long finger.

"Yeah, well." She gave him a once-over, her brow furrowed. Then, she started walking towards the next set of moving stairs.

Draco caught up to her, trying to push back his negative feelings towards himself. It wasn't like they were new, and it wasn't like he didn't already think ill of himself. He just didn't understand why he did things without thinking first.

Perhaps it was because of his father. Lucius operated under the assumption that his blood status alone meant that the world turned for him rather than in spite of him. Every step he took, he assumed the world was spinning to award him a place to plant the sole of his boot. That Pureblood wizards were nature's chosen ones, and that anyone who was sullied by the inferiority of Muggle blood wasn't worthy of his gaze. He instilled those same values into Draco, which was the main reason why the younger Malfoy was such a fucking prat before Sixth Year.

Well, he was still a prat that year, it was just less external.

Fuck, all of this stress was starting to wear on him. What he wouldn't give for some fucking weed.

"You said you don't hate Harry," Granger said as they rounded a corner.

"Yeah. I don't. I don't give fuck-all about him, but I don't hate him."

"But you didn't say that about Ron."

There.

Right there.

His opportunity.

"Because I hate Weasley," he said. "You know that."

"I do know that."

"So why are you asking?"

"I'm not asking anything. I didn't ask a question."

Their bickering continued, words and accusations volleying back and forth down the third and second floors' staircases. Draco was trying to figure out a way to steer the conversation towards Weasley so that he could figure out not only what the oaf knew, but the outcome of the cheating situation. Granger seemed hyper-focused on the fact that Draco didn't hate Potter, but despised Weasley—like she wanted him to admit it when there was nothing hidden to admit in the first place.

When they made it to the ground floor, Draco had had enough.

"What do you want from me, Granger?" he snapped, turning to face her and throwing one hand up into the air. "Do you want me to walk up to him and punch him the face? Huh? You want me to smash his face into a wall until his nose bleeds? What the fuck? What the _fuck_ do you _want_?"

A few seconds passed where she stared at him in astonishment and then without letting her breath out, she answered him.

"Yes."

He blinked. "What?"

" _Just—!"_ She let out a scowl and turned around. He saw one of her hands wrapping around the hem of her pleated skirt. The other one moved to curve around the back of her neck. "It's selfish of me, but yes. I do. I just want someone to . . . Beat him _up_. It's so juvenile and stupid, but that's what I want. It's wrong of me, but—"

"Hey," Draco said, tone gentle. He reached forward as if to touch her arm, then snatched his hand back. "It's not stupid. Juvenile, perhaps. But not stupid."

Not turning back around, she said, "Wrong?"

Draco huffed. "The last person to ask about wrong versus right is me, Granger."

"I'm just . . ." She hung her head. "Tired of feeling like I'm the only one who can defend myself. It gets tiring. Constantly fighting for myself when sometimes I just want . . . I just want . . ."

"A tall boy with tattoos to beat your ex-boyfriend up?"

She whirled around to glare at him, and he saw her lifting her hand as though to slap him again. He couldn't help it—he burst out laughing and stepped back.

"Okay, okay!" he said. "I'm just fucking with you."

She wrinkled her nose in a pout of irritation and then crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't put it like that. It's humiliating and sounds even more immature."

"But I'd do it," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trackies. "If you asked."

For a second—just a second—it looked like she was fighting the urge to smile. "I doubt that. Risking your parole that way? You'd lose your wand and go straight to Azkaban. Possibly get expelled on top of that."

Draco lowered his gaze, frowning as the light spirit in the air suddenly dwindled to nothing. It mingled with the grey smoke inside of him and turned it black with rage. His future was already uncertain, but how he felt about the Weaselbee was as certain as the sun coming up every day.

The day the sun stopped rising was the day Draco Malfoy would not want to beat the fuck out of Ron Weasley.

"It'd be worth it. He deserves it."

She started to say something, then seemed to change her mind. Her brows twitched together and she shook her head. Without another word, she turned and headed down the corridor towards their dorm room. He followed, and they passed the Great Hall with a quiet yet charged silence between them.

Draco didn't want the opportunity to pass. He needed to get _somewhere_ with her on the path towards talking about the memory. It was _impossible_ for him to forget that it had happened, and he was never going to forget what he'd seen. Just because she wanted to pretend it hadn't happened didn't mean he could pretend he hadn't felt what she'd felt when he was there inside her head.

"So you want it done at breakfast or lunch?"

"What?" She slowed to a stop right before an alcove they were both familiar with. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't _actually_ attack Ron."

"Yes, I can," he said, eyebrows shooting up. "Are you joking? I can do whatever the fuck I want."

"But the consequences are typically supposed to outweigh the desire, Malfoy."

"Typically they would, Granger."

They held each other's gaze in yet another challenge.

"You're ridiculous," she said. "Do you live in a completely different dimension from the rest of us? You can't just do whatever you'd like. There are rules and there are—are cogs to the machine that fit together the way they're supposed to."

"Granger." Draco breathed a laugh, then rubbed the stubble on his chin with his fingers. "I know how things work. I'm a Pureblood. The rules of wizarding society were set by people like my father."

"Then what's the difference?"

"The difference is that I don't give a fuck about the rules or the consequences or the 'cogs in the machine.' In this particular situation, I _would_ be willing to risk all of that just to smash his face into his breakfast. I would, and the only reason why you don't want me to is because you're afraid of what people will think of you. Which is exactly how my father raised me—to care what everyone thinks of me, which is why I was such a prat to everyone else. So, what's the difference? The difference is that now, I don't care what my _father_ raised me to believe."

Granger lifted one brow and he went on.

"Weasley deserves a hex to the gut," he snarled, and then he lifted his clenched fist in front of him, "and my fist in his fucking face."

Both of Granger's hands went to the hem of her skirt, where she gripped it and fidgeted with it. He saw her chew her lips, clearly unsure of what to say next. Fortunately for her, Draco knew exactly what _he_ wanted to say next.

"Has he spoken to you since you broke up?"

"No," she said. "And I never wrote him the letter. I just . . . Walked up to him and told him I knew he was cheating. He told me—" She looked away and then said, "He took it better than expected."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He just . . . Took it better than expected."

"What did he _say_?" Draco growled through his teeth.

"Nothing." Granger blinked, looking like she wanted to take a step back. "Just leave it alone. And don't say anything to him. I don't know why I even suggested it. Let it be."

He bit his lip and looked down into the shadows of the alcove. He nodded to himself, on the verge of marching up to the Fourth floor, where the Eighth Year common room had been built. If the way he'd heard the Weasel speak to her was of any indication, he was sure it wasn't _nothing_. The Weaselbee had probably had all sorts of fun, neat things to say to her.

Draco didn't like that.

"All right. Yeah. Sure." He pushed his fingers through his fringe, and it fell back into his eyes. "You do realize that people have seen him with witches at night, right? Like, usually around the time that we left the common room."

"I know."

"Well . . . Weren't you worried we were gonna run into him tonight?" They started walking.

"I was concerned, yes. I thought we might . . . I dunno, _see_ him during rounds. I'm glad we didn't. I have one class with him, but I try to avoid him otherwise. I know I said I wanted to keep the friendship—after all, it's been seven-and-a-half years—but I think I need time."

They only made it a few meters.

Draco stopped, the opening of the alcove to his left seeming small and dark. His mind turned and spun, beginning to make sense of things.

The suddenness of him needing to go on rounds. The fact that she'd admitted she wanted him to deal with Weasley. Nevermind the fact that it was completely out of character for Granger to want physical violence for someone she'd considered a friend, why _him_? Why did she want Draco specifically to be the one to do it?

"Granger."

"Hm?" She turned to him.

He raised one eyebrow and said nothing. Slowly, her mouth tipped down into a grimace. She averted her eyes.

"McGonagall didn't want me to do rounds, did she?"

She sighed and said, "No. I mean, she _does_. But she didn't talk to me about it today like I said she did. And I may or may not have seen Ron holding hands with Hannah at dinner, so I was feeling a bit Slytherin."

"So you _picked_ a Slytherin."

"You're the one who knows all the—the places, or whatever the castle's got. You used to sneak around the corridors at night with witches, didn't you? I figured we would—we would catch him, or he'd run into us, and then . . ."

"And then _what_?"

Her grimace turned into a weak smile. "I assumed there would be an argument and since it's nighttime and there's no professors, the two of you would get into a row. And then . . ." She held up her fist. "Faces would be struck?"

Draco laughed. He laughed, and he couldn't stop. He tilted his head back, holding one hand over his stomach while the humor and absurdity of the situation overwhelmed him.

As much as he truly did want to have words with the Weasel, the thought of Granger _plotting_ to _manipulate_ Draco into being her personal bodyguard for a night? _Granger,_ Hogwarts' resident swot, had tried to out-Slytherin a Slytherin.

It was hilarious.

" _What_?!" she cried. "He's terrified of you, and that's why he's so quick to reach for his wand around you! I didn't think getting the row to start would be the most difficult part."

"How would this row ensue?!" Draco said between laughs, his vision swimming with tears of mirth. "We'd burst into the Prefect's bathroom and find him shagging someone over the loo?!"

" _Shut up_!" she cried, stomping her foot.

"If you want me to kick his arse, just ask," he said. "Don't . . . Don't orchestrate a plot to trick me into it. Honestly, it would take less than a question, Granger. A pointed look is all I'd need."

"I didn't want to do that—to _ask_. It's—it feels wrong to even think about it." She hugged herself against the drafty air.

"But not wrong to create an entire plot to get me to do it?"

"Uh—" Another grimace and then a wince. "No?"

"Well, what the Hell were you thinking would get him worked up enough to want to fight?! Just seeing my face?!"

"Um . . ." She grimaced _again_ and lifted her shoulders in a meek shrug. "I _said_ it was juvenile and stupid."

Confused, he shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought we would . . . I dunno—find some way to make it look like we were snogging?"

Draco let out a stuttered laugh, blinking rapidly as his stomach twisted into a tight knot.

She said, _what_ now?


	15. Chapter 15

**Apricity – Chapter Thirteen**

Draco glanced to the left, into the alcove again.

Memories flooded his mind—memories that he was supposed to have forgotten, that he knew he'd never been able to—and he wondered if she'd remembered, too.

Fourth Year.

The Yule Ball.

Now that everything was different, he saw how wrong it was that he'd kissed her out of the blue. He hadn't even asked her. He'd just pinned her against the wall and taken what he wanted, even if he hadn't realized he wanted it. Swept up in hormones and anger, he'd reached into the void and ripped out the darkest parts of himself. What if he'd caused her to cry the way she had in Paris? What if he was just as bad as the man?

What if Draco was a monster?

He felt his heart sinking so low that it plummeted to the core of the Earth his father believed was his. He gazed into the shadows until his vision blurred and the lantern light looked foggy. His shoulders began to slump a bit. Draco liked to think he had changed, but what if that didn't matter?

_Am I no better than the men who hurt her? Am I no better than the attacker, or than Weaselbee?_

"I wasn't thinking we would _actually_ snog." Her voice pulled him out of his somber reverie, and he looked down at her. She looked miffed. "Don't look so _sad_ at the thought."

"I'm not sad at the thought," he murmured. _I'm just worried I hurt you before anyone else ever did._

"It's not as if it would be far outside of your realm of experience," she said with a harsh breath. "Like I said earlier—I _know_ you were all over this castle with witches when we were younger."

"You're right," he said. "I was."

"And look—" She walked into the alcove, each step she took ringing inside his heart. "—if we would have stood right here, under the lantern, but just outside the circle of light, then he would have seen us but not vividly. We could easily have made it look real."

He ambled in after her, hands still loosely in his pockets. He tilted his head to the side, his fringe falling across his eyes as she positioned herself with her back to the wall.

"See how the light barely hits me?" She held her hands up. " _Voila_."

He did see how the light hit her. She looked like she was glowing.

"You're saying this like you think it's gonna happen," he said.

She blinked. "Well, I mean—it's not as if this was the last night we ever do rounds. It's only December."

"And you're hoping to get revenge by the end of the year?" He chuckled, but he felt the mirth didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hopefully, if the plan goes well. It doesn't have to be on this floor in particular, just any alcove we see." She gasped, her eyes widening with excitement. "Ooh! We could use a Disillusionment charm while we do rounds so that when we find him, he won't see us, and we can figure out which alcove to hide in. We can wait until he comes by, and then quickly . . . Like, get into position. Does that make sense?"

Draco scoffed. She had spent all this time coming up with a plan that involved him, while _avoiding_ him? For _weeks_?

"You're willing to violate my parole, break school rules, and fake snogging in the corridors just to prove to him that you're a wanted witch?"

"Yes."

"But you're not willing to let me just walk up to him and punch him in the face?"

"I—" She looked off to the right in thought. "Yes. I mean—no. I'd rather do it this way, without violence. It works out better for you this way, and it's going to have a more lasting impact. It's more . . ."

"Painful?"

Another wince. "Yes."

"You should have been in Slytherin, Granger."

"Just—will you come here?" she snapped, waving him over. "We're going to practice this."

Draco sauntered over, his heart rattling in his chest like it was trying to escape a cage. He looked her up and down, stopping a foot or so away. "I haven't agreed to anything."

"I know, but—but I'm pretty sure you will. I mean . . . I'm not the sort to beg, but I will if I have to. Malfoy, I know it's petty and it's not very Gryffindor of me, but I desperately need this. I _need_ to prove . . . Nevermind. Help me do this, okay? If you help me do this—if we plan it in advance and carry it out—then I'll never ask you to do rounds with me again. And—and I'll tell Minerva that you've been coming with me so you can get credit for it and not violate parole."

Draco arched one brow. The fact that she thought the _Weaselbee_ was someone who deserved to have anything proven to him was laughable.

"You need my consent," he said.

"Of course I do!" she cried, giving him a look that could wither roses. Then, the fire faded from her eyes and showed him the Winter in her soul. Her voice lowered, as did her gaze. "Of course I do."

"All right," he said, straightening his spine and pulling his hands out of his pockets. He saw her eyes track the movements of his arms, scanning the tattoos that adorned them like she always did. He never knew if it was because she liked them before, but after their earlier conversation, he knew different.

He just didn't know what it meant.

Stepping closer, until the toes of their shoes were only one inch apart, he entered her personal space. She seemed even shorter up close, the way the top of her head barely reached above his shoulder. If he leaned forward, her hair buns would graze his chin. The light from the lantern only lit the area to the right of them, with faint light that barely glossed her side.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Huh?" He saw her shoulders jump, as though she hadn't expected him to ask the question. "Oh, here . . . Let me just put my feet like this, and . . . Bend my knee a bit . . . And maybe my hand here? No, here. Yeah, here. And then . . ."

Draco, who hadn't moved an inch, merely looked down his nose at her as she arranged herself in multiple positions, moving infinitesimally until she was in one that she liked. Seeing her from this distance, he could see parts of her face that he hadn't noticed before, even underneath the dim lighting.

He could see the way her nostrils flared a bit when she was frustrated, and the animated way her brows moved when something didn't work—like she was shocked it wasn't working for her because she was who she was. She didn't seem to want to touch him, which he understood, but he had to be realistic with her.

"This looks fake."

"No, it doesn't. It looks—"

"I can tell you right now it looks fake. Fake as Hell."

"How am I supposed to make it look real, then?" she cried, her hands held up in front her shoulders like he was aiming a wand at her.

Draco pursed his lips, scrutinizing her as he tried to figure out how to _show_ her without showing her. He'd been in this situation thousands of times, with witches pushed up against walls, but never with one that he was scared to break.

He'd seen what she looked like when she fell apart, and he didn't want to be the cause of it.

"Can I touch you?" he asked, swallowing against the somewhat nervous way his throat bobbed. He lifted his hands in slow, small increments.

"Yes, for this, but . . ." she said, and in the pause after her words, he felt it. He knew she knew he'd been in the memory, and she knew that he knew she was trying to ignore it. They _both_ knew that she was expecting him to follow along and figure out what was okay and wasn't okay, even though she didn't want to talk about any of it. ". . . Nothing untoward."

"What's your definition of 'untoward'?"

"You know." A one-shoulder shrug.

Draco's face slackened into a deadpan expression, and then he sighed. He racked his brain for what he could do to make the situation look real so that when or if this plot was to be carried out, it would look authentic.

Inside, his heart continued to beat in random patterns and his stomach had coiled into a tight knot that reminded him of the day he'd had to give his first speech in front of his First Year Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He could feel the storm whipping up, like rumbling clouds of thunder and grey, promising a hurricane with an unknown outcome.

And then Granger tilted her head back. It was so she could look into his eyes, or perhaps it was because it was awkward just staring at his bare chest above the neckline of his shirt. Whatever it was, it made Draco feel something like a shock to his system. It rolled up his spine, into his chest, and down into his stomach, where it shifted into something completely different.

Something he recognized.

His left forearm slammed against the wall above her head. The right one slipped around her waist, dragging her up onto the tips of her toes and pressing her firm against his body. She was warm in spite of how cold her hand had been earlier, and the juxtaposition of that and those cold palms pressing flat to his chest sent a chill through him. Before she saw it in his face, he dipped his mouth towards her left ear, effectively trapping her head between his raised arm and his lips.

"Like this?" he said, and his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. His hand was flat on her lower back, and he could feel the bumps of her spine through the fabric of her top.

"This is—this is f-fine."

Granger shifted, his arm keeping her from lowering back to the flats of her feet. Draco pulled his head back far enough to look her in the eyes.

"You're as rigid as a board," he said.

"I'm not," she said, but she was.

"If you want it to look real when we do it, you're gonna have to relax," he said, trying to keep his voice calm in spite of the rapid beating of his heart. He hoped she couldn't feel it slamming against his bones.

"I know that," she whispered, and he saw a flicker of something familiar in her eyes. Something he'd felt when he was a passenger inside her mind, walking her memory like a nightmare.

Fear.

"This is because it's me," he said, "and you don't trust me. Which is fine—you don't need to trust me to fake a snog session. But I have no intention of hurting you."

Her hands were still flat against his chest, pushing as though she wanted to shove him away. He didn't move, hoping that she would say the words if she wanted him to.

"I—I know that," she said, sounding breathless. Her gaze was focused on his neck now. "I'm just—sorry."

"Do not apologize to me," he said, biting the words out. "If you want me to move back, I will."

His hand slid along her back as he began to move, but she made a sound of protest. One of her hands clenched in his shirt while the other slid up to his shoulder and curved over the top of it. Still without looking at him, she spoke.

"It's not you. It's me." She took a deep breath, which he felt brushing the hollow of his throat. "It's me. I think I just need to get used to you being here."

"We don't have to do this tonight. We can go back to the dorm and—"

"No!" she cried, voice shrill. "No. I want to do this. I _need_ to be able to do this."

 _Oh_.

Somehow, Draco had a feeling that this situation was about more than practicing to brass the Weasel off.

"Okay." Draco pulled his head back, ducking down a little until he caught her gaze with his own. Now, it was her looking down her nose at him. " _You're_ in control, Granger. Got it?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Good girl." Her eyes widened a fraction, never leaving his face as he stood upright again. He kept his arm on the wall and his hand against her back. "You're in control."

"I-I'll just get comfortable with you," she said. He could feel her body trembling. "I'll touch you now, okay?"

"Do whatever you'd like," he said, tone soft as a whisper.

Still on tip-toe, Granger lifted her hand from his shoulder and reached up for his face. He tried not to flinch when her fingertips brushed his cheekbone. Because in reality, Draco hadn't been touched like this since his mother died. Which wasn't exactly what he wanted to think about right now.

She trailed her fingers down the side of his neck, raising sparks in his flesh along the way down to the outer edge of the furthest rose on his neck. He could tell she was struggling to keep her breathing even, and he made sure not to move lest she spring up like a wild Hippogriff and fly away.

Even though his skin was sensitive, he forced himself to remain as still as a statue as her fingers traced every petal and link in the chains that were etched into his skin. Across his collarbones and down into the center of his chest, where she traced everything she could see.

Witches had touched him before, but something felt different about this. It was there, lurking in the storm that waged within him. Something he couldn't name that was more than Granger.

Draco was powerless to stop the shudder that rippled through his body.

Her eyes snapped up to his.

"Sorry," he said, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Wariness passed over her face. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that. Stop."

"Like what?' he asked, perplexed.

"Like _that_. Like you—like you _see_ me, or something. I don't like it."

"So you can touch me, but I can't look at you?"

She frowned, lines furrowing their way into her brow as she lowered her glare to his chest again.

"Why would you want to?"

Draco opened his mouth to reply but realized that he didn't know what to say. Everything he _wanted_ to say was too earth-shattering. Too confusing. The words that were bouncing around his head were out of control, flung from the left side of the Quidditch pitch. If he uttered them, he knew it would change things between them when he didn't even understand what they meant.

He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful.

"If you want me to stop looking at you," he said under his breath as he scanned her face, "then stop touching me."

She said nothing, looking only curious as her hand went back up again, along his pulse where she felt his stuttering heartbeat for a lingering moment. Then it was on the move, fingers traveling the length of his jaw and brushing his earlobe. His eyelids fluttered shut in spite of himself, and her fingers sunk into his hair.

_Shite._

His stomach twisted tighter and tighter, the storm swirling like a raging sea in his body. Her fingernails were scraping along his scalp in a way that no one had done before—not even Pansy—and his mind went as blank as a slate. She scratched up to the top of his head, sifting through the platinum strands of his hair, and back down to the base of the right side of his skull.

"Holy— _fuck_ ," he whispered, his eyes rolling up into his head as he nuzzled into her touch.

"Holy?" She paused, her fingers tangled fully. "You know Judeo-Christian expletives? They're Muggle."

"It's a fucking word in the English language, and I took Muggle Studies," he said, the words rushing out on a breath. "Just keep doing that—whatever you were doing—keep—yeah."

She resumed scratching her fingers along his scalp in long, wide circular patterns. Draco was a puddle. He was turning _into_ a puddle. He'd never felt anything so . . . Nice, or so—just so _soothing_.

So good.

His fingernails dug into her back a bit as he tried to keep control of himself—tried to remember that this wasn't just any other witch. This was Granger. This was a witch that had been through something he could never understand, even if he'd been present in her memory of it. She was the strongest witch he knew, yet in front of him in this moment, she was a stammering mess.

He knew this whole situation was embarrassing, planning to trick an ex-wizard into finding them in a compromising position, but he knew it wasn't only about that. He wondered if there was something about him that made her feel as if he was the one she could trust to ease her into whatever it was that she was trying to ease herself into.

An epiphany rolled over him and softened his heart.

If she didn't want to talk about it yet, he'd take this.

Draco relaxed and his head tipped forward, his forehead resting on her shoulder. She stiffened up at first, but his hand sliding around to her other side, fully ensconcing her in a one-armed embrace seemed to assuage her.

The tension left her body in waves as she lowered back to the soles of her feet. His palm smoothed into the dip of her waistline, his other hand curling into a fist against the wall.

And he held her.

"It's all right," he murmured, as if it were second nature to comfort her. He couldn't stop seeing the hotel room with its red décor and ugly wallpaper. He closed his eyes and saw her curled up on the floor, sobbing. "It's all right."

After a second where he thought she might tell him to move away, he felt her tugging on his shoulder. She pulled him forward the last inch, until there was no distance between the wall, her body, and his own. She turned her face to the side, facing outward, and rested her head on his chest.

"Tighter," she whispered, and her voice squeaked.

He obliged, tightening his arm around her. She let out another tremulous breath and sagged against him.

Holding her the way he'd wanted to when he saw her in the hotel room, he tried his best to bat away the thoughts of _What am I doing?_ and _Have I gone mental?_ He'd never been the comforting, soothing type. He'd never been the sort of guy who liked to sit with witches while they cried.

But there was something about Granger that had rent his heart in two when he heard her sob that first _"I can't,"_ and that made him want to shed his skin for her. And even though the embrace was for her sake, Draco couldn't help but feel his own emotions rising to the surface.

The last person to hold him was his mother.

After a few minutes of silence, Granger spoke.

"Interesting that we're in this alcove again, only this time, you're a much different person."

"Hm," he said, humming into the top of her shoulder where he'd bent his back to drop his head. He straightened up and looked down at her. "I suppose I am."

She had a shy yet open expression on her face. "Do you regret it?"

He raised his chin a bit. "Didn't you tell me to forget it ever happened?"

"I know what I said, Malfoy." She didn't look away. "Do you regret it?"

"Some parts," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I should have asked for your consent first."

"Yes, you should have," she said, and it was her turn to lift her chin. Her hand slid out of his hair and fell to her side, but the other remained on his shoulder, her thumb brushing the base of his neck.

The coil inside of Draco's stomach loosened a bit, his curiosity piqued.

"Are you saying you would have said yes?"

"Not necessarily. But that's the point—how are you ever going to know if you don't ask?" Her upper lip curled and she glowered at the stone floor in the shadows. "You men and your inability to understand that most women will say yes if they like you, and if they don't, then you could always find a girl who does. There's no reason to take what isn't yours when there are people who would be happy to be yours, provided you're not a complete nutter. Maybe if men weren't so bloody forceful, thinking with their _pricks_ all the time, then women wouldn't think they wanted to hurt them."

As her ranting progressed, Draco noticed her getting more agitated as she went. Her body stiffened up again, and her teeth began to clench. Her fingers dug into his flesh, and he'd bet all of his galleons that her hand was in a fist at her side. In her eyes, he saw her anger burning brighter than the lantern.

Something about her was still glowing.

He leaned forward before he could stop himself, his lips brushing against her ear. She stopped in the middle of her sentence.

"And do you?" he asked, glancing off to the left towards the darkness deeper in the alcove.

"Do I wh-what?" Her breathing hitched.

"Do you think think that I want to hurt you?"

"I don't . . . I don't know." She said it like an epiphany of her own.

Draco inhaled, deep within his chest, and then said, "If I would have asked you back then, what would you have said?"

"Does it matter?" Her breath tickled his neck. "It was Fourth Year."

"Granger." He straightened again, pulling back to look at her. He needed the wall for support, so he let go of his hold on her waist and reached up to trace the swirls of her edges along her hairline. He could feel the hair product there, the smooth crispness fascinating him. "I asked you a question."

"I-I mean, if y-you had kissed my neck, or—or something, it would have been different. A kiss on the lips was too much."

"So, if I'd have asked you if I could kiss you, you would have said no?"

"No," she said, and then he felt her body go rigid once more. "I mean—that's a lie. That's a—it's a lie."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. "If I said to you, _Granger, can I kiss you?_ If I looked you dead in the eyes and asked you that, would you have said yes or no?"

"Back then, I would have said no."

"Back then?"

She nodded.

"And what about now?"

She looked terrified—absolutely _terrified_ —and then she said, "I wouldn't be against it. Er—well, because it's practice—but not on the—the lips. But I mean—oh, I don't—"

"Granger," he growled. She needed to give him a definitive answer because there was _something_ about her—

She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them, meeting his gaze with a directness that could only be a result of her House placement. "Yes. I think I—"

_There it is._

Draco felt something cracking inside of him, splintering like glass and letting the storm of grey fill his entire body. It drove him to bend down, where he planted a kiss to the side of her bared throat that was way more heated than he meant it to be, yet nowhere near where he wanted it.

And he continued to kiss her skin, up and down, close to her jaw and then laid his lips over her pounding pulse. Her heard her trying to complete her sentence, starting words that fizzled into short breaths.

His right hand came up to cup the other side of her neck, fingers tickling the curly tuft of hair at the back of her scalp. His thumb pushed upward on her jaw, tilting her head so he could have better access as he tasted her flesh like it belonged to him. His tongue was soft, his lips gentle, but his teeth scraped with ferocity that had her panting harsh gasps into the sudden silence.

The storm swirled into an inferno of colors, so many that he couldn't name them all. His heart was singing, and he felt like he was floating. He could _feel_ her heart singing, and he wondered if she could, too.

When his tongue found a sensitive spot near the junction of her shoulder and neck, Granger gasped. Rising up on tip-toe again, both of her hands moved. Her fingers fluttered along his tattooed skin, as if she _had_ to feel them one more time, and then they went to the back of his head. Long fingernails massaged his scalp again, right in the depths of his hair, and he couldn't help it.

He moaned.

Draco pressed her so hard against the wall that she couldn't have stood flat on her feet if she wanted to. He intensified the press of his tongue and the caress of his lips. The breaths she was pushing into his ear turned to pants that bordered on whines.

"Yeah?" he practically snarled between kisses to her throat. "That's good?"

Her response came right as he sucked a bruise into her pulse point. His right knee found its way between her thighs. There were mere inches between his trackies and her center, and she wasn't stiffening up.

What did _that_ mean?

"Ye— _ah_ ," she whispered, whimpering and arching her back until her chest was tight to his. Her trembling increased and he felt her trying to rub her thighs together—they pressed to either side of his leg.

Hermione Granger whimpering. _Whimpering._

" _Fuck,"_ he groaned into her flesh, teeth grazing _._

That was not something he had ever thought about desiring to hear, but now that he'd heard it, he didn't think he ever wanted to _stop_ hearing it. He wanted to kiss her on the lips and taste every part of her mouth, but he wasn't going to. She'd said not to, and he wasn't going to ruin her again.

Whether this was practice for her or not, it wasn't practice for him.

It _meant_ something, he just didn't know what.

The moment he pulled her earlobe into his mouth, she lost whatever faculties she'd maintained for the past five minutes. She tugged on his hair, sharp and hard, crying out louder than she probably meant to. It as loud enough that it snapped Draco out of the reverie he was in. He threw himself back from her, staggering a couple of steps.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. His stomach was slow to untwist, and the blood even slower to return to the rest of his body. "Forgive me. I got . . . Carried away."

"It's okay," she said, a hand covering her neck where his mouth had been. "I think you left a—a mark, though."

Draco pushed his fingers into his hair for a second, closing his eyes against the wild urge he had to grab her and snog her senseless against the wall. He shook his hair out, the choppy strands falling into his eyes again, and he let out his breath.

"That's a good thing, innit?"

"Stop it," she said, eyes wide and head ducking down.

"Huh? Stop what?" Panic bloomed in his chest and he took a step toward her. "Did I hurt you?"

"What? No! No, I . . . Stop saying ' _good_.'"

He started to ask her about it, but then nodded instead. Whatever her reasoning for her not wanting him to say the word, he would respect it. He felt awful for going too far, because though he hadn't kissed her on the lips, it had felt just as intimate.

"But thank you," she said, starting to walk back towards the hall. "I know you hate when I say it, but . . .I still don't care if you do. "

"And you're thanking me for. . . ?"

"Thank you for asking for my consent."

She rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. He almost followed after her but stopped himself in his tracks. He could feel it in the air—she wanted to be alone.

He would take her gratitude and walk back to the common room by himself.

* * *

The common room was dark and quiet when Draco returned to it.

To his surprise, the loo was unoccupied. He went into it for a shower, enjoying the way the warm water felt against his skin, having not realized that he was colder than he'd thought. Perhaps he'd been too distracted to notice it.

He sighed and pressed his forehead against the tiles on the wall, feeling the tension in his body easing bit by bit. His eyelids falling shut, his mind spun back to the alcove and the shadows.

To the feeling of his arms around her, holding her tight against him. To the way he wished he could have held her like that in Paris, and how he wished he could have been there to handle the situation with the Weaselbee before he'd ever Apparated away. To the way she'd rested her head against his chest and let herself be held by someone she'd once considered an enemy. To the way he could still feel her in his embrace, and the way he wanted to do it one more time.

Draco covered his face with one hand, feeling somewhat beleaguered.

How starved was he for affection that he was more interested in the thought of getting to hold her again than he was at the fact that he'd necked with her in a corridor?

When his shower was done, he stepped into his trackies, but chose not to put his shirt back on. He was going straight to bed, so there was no point. After pushing his fingers through his hair and messing it up the way he liked it, he used the loo.

As he lifted the lid up, he paused.

Why were there blue flecks under the rim?

Back in his room, he laid shirtless in bed in the dark, trying to figure out what could possibly have a blue color. Was it some sort of Muggle cleaning solution? Granger had an entire cupboard of those underneath the kitchenette sink, so he wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't cleaned the loo as well as she'd wanted to. Which made him feel a bit amused, when he thought about it.

 _Salazar's beard, how bad_ is _she at cleaning?_

Draco tossed and turned for a while, trying to quiet his spirit so he could drift off to the land of slumber. It was difficult when he could still feel the press of her body against his and hear the sounds she made ringing in his ears. He wondered if he would dream about her again.

Fuck. It was a nightmare trying to sleep when his mind was this full of consternation.

Lying on his stomach, he reached down underneath his bed, feeling for the small black satchel he kept there. He pulled it out, hoping there was something left in it. He rummaged through it, pulling out a small pipe made of onyx glass and the Muggle lighter Blaise had given him months ago. He reached in again and grabbed a small pouch from within.

 _Ah, there's nothing left,_ he thought, irritated. _Guess I'll just scrape it._

Not wanting to charm the lights back on, Draco grabbed the small pin that he'd stolen from Pansy that Summer and went to sit in the window seat. Pulling his knees to his bare chest, he used the light of the moon and stars to guide him as he spent the next twenty minute scraping resin out of the bowl of the pipe. Once he had enough, he used the lighter to light it and began to smoke.

It tasted bloody awful, but he wasn't complaining. He was bone-tired, but his mind was way too alive to get to sleep without it. Gazing out the window at the far-off Quidditch Pitch, he wondered what his mother would say if she knew he was smoking Muggle marijuana just to get to sleep. What she would say if she knew that he'd kissed Hermione Granger's neck in an alcove.

What would his _father_ say?

By the time the resin was gone, Draco was sufficiently high. It felt like the Earth was spinning slower and there was a pleasant feeling that had washed over his entire body. It was enough to lower his eyelids and infuse lethargy into his muscles.

Perfect.

He fell into bed after putting the paraphernalia away, and closed his eyes.

 _Knock, knock, knock_.

Draco sighed and rolled back over. He hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, the moonlight falling across it from the window.

Now, he _knew_ she was not knocking on his door at two in the morning. What could she possibly _need_?

He swung his legs until his feet were flat on the floor. He rested his elbows on his thighs, his mind spinning from the deepness of his interrupted sleep. Rubbing his face with his hands, he struggled to wake fully.

_Knock, knock, knock._

"I'm coming!" he snapped in annoyance, standing up and muttering to himself. "Can't even put on a _fucking_ shirt. I'm so _fucking_ Salazar-damned _tired_."

He ripped the door open and shouldered the doorframe with his arm outstretched to hold it open. It was dark as pitch in the hallway, but the light from his window cast blue into the shadows. Granger stood there, wearing oversized pyjama pants and a large dark shirt with long sleeves. She was swimming in the clothes, looking quite the sight with her curly hair sticking up in several directions and her arms wrapped around a fleece blanket.

Her gaze swept his destroyed hair, down to his naked torso, and then bounced back up to his face.

"Does your offer still stand?"

"Granger," he said, trying not to scowl through his yawn. He rubbed his eye. " _What_ offer?"

She clutched her blanket closer.

"I had a nightmare."


	16. Chapter 16

**Apricity – Chapter Fourteen**

"Get in here, then."

Draco watched as Granger padded into the room, ducking underneath his outstretched arm to do so. The end of her blanket trailed on the carpet after her. She stood halfway between the doorway and the bed with a strange expression on her face. Brows furrowed and lips frowning, but eyes wide with trepidation. Like she was already regretting her decision.

Seeing Hermione Granger standing in his room was starling. She looked small and blue under the moonlight, half bathed in shadows and seeming on the verge of toppling over. With her blanket and the way she kept biting her lip, he thought she looked rather cute.

He choked on the air he was breathing and coughed.

Had he just—?

That wasn't his business. No. No, he had not just. The thought had not crossed his mind, and if it had, he was possessed.

_Except it's a thought you've had before, so don't act new._

Draco walked past her, towards the bed. "You can take the bed, and I'll transfigure something on the floor. The dorm's not big enough for two beds."

"Okay," she said.

He grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and set it on the floor. Then, he picked his wand up from the bedside table and pointed it at the pillow, preparing to transfigure himself a mat. He inhaled.

"Wait!" she cried, her voice ringing in his ears. "Sorry—that was loud. Just, wait. We can share."

He looked at her. "What?"

"We can share," she repeated. "You've got a full size bed and there's not much room on the floor. Also, you're like, twenty feet tall. It doesn't make sense for you to be cramped on the floor."

"So logical," he said, twirling his wand around his fingers. He arched one eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because I want to lay next to someone, Malfoy," she snapped, stomping over. She ripped the green coverlet back, exposing the black satin sheets. Glaring at him, she plopped down ono the mattress. "Why do you always have to make everything so sodding difficult? You're the one who told me if I had a nightmare, I could come in here!"

Draco felt old anger rising and it was like it was November and the dishes were dirty again.

"Well, forgive me if I don't believe you'd be wanting to sleep in a bed with your old nemesis, Granger." He scraped his hair back. "I made the offer so you knew I was here—I didn't think you'd actually be comfortable enough to."

"Why wouldn't I be comfortable?" she said through clenched teeth as she laid back and curled onto her side. "There's nothing for me to be uncomfortable about."

He sensed the tension pulling taut and he closed his mouth. He'd strayed too close to the memory—to the nightmare. She had specifically told him not to talk about it.

But Salazar, if he didn't wish he had somewhere he could put his memory of it away for a while.

Draco climbed back into bed, pulling his half of the coverlet over himself and facing the window and its cushioned seat. He closed his eyes. The silence was as awkward as he'd expect it to be when sharing a bed with Granger, but he supposed it wasn't as bad as it _could_ be.

At least she didn't seem scared.

"You're not gonna put a shirt on?"

"Nah, why would I?" He propped himself on his elbow so he could fluff his pillow, and then laid back down. "'Sides—you said you liked my tattoos. There's plenty to look at on my back."

"Yes, your entirely unique dragon tattoo with wings that span your shoulder blades," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Intermingled with flames and thorns. How original."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, feeling a distinct urge to roll over and kick her leg with his foot. He did arch his head back to give her a sour look, but her back was still to him.

"It's just that your tattoos aren't as original as you think." She let out a haughty sniff. "Every Muggle boy with a tattoo has a dragon, an anchor, a skull, a rose, a—"

"Yeah, yeah." He scowled. "But I'm not a Muggle, so I'm unique in the wizarding sense."

"Bold of you to assume, however, that I'd want to look at them."

"You seem to have no issue looking at the ones on the front of me."

"That's because they're on the front of you, idjit!" she snapped. "Where the bloody Hell else am I supposed to look?"

Draco was powerless to stop the chuckle that slipped past his lips. "You're feisty as fuck at night, Granger."

"Shut up!"

He rolled his eyes. "Why are you always such a bitch?"

"Why are you—" She cut herself off, likely realizing that he wasn't actually doing anything wrong. "Why don't you just get over it?"

"I will."

"Fine."

"Already am."

" _Okay_."

"Okay."

"I said _okay_."

Draco bit his tongue hard enough to silence himself. Granger was acting like a child—like a brat throwing a tantrum in her nappies. It was so unlike the sort of person he thought she'd be, yet so much like her that it could only be described as a darker part of herself. He could handle it, but that didn't mean he wanted to.

They laid there for a while, his irritation running so high that he didn't have the energy to put focus on the fact that he was lying in bed next to Hermione Granger. It existed so far outside of the realm of absurdity that it felt like a dream in and of itself. Like his consciousness was trying to float out of his body so it could catch a glimpse of what they looked like as a pair.

"I was ashamed."

He shifted, his eyelids feeling heavy as they dragged upward. He'd been halfway to slumber, but something in the quiet of her voice had yanked him back into waking.

" _Mm—_ what?" he mumbled.

"I was ashamed," Granger whispered, "and that's why I haven't talked to you about it yet."

"About what?" Draco rolled onto his back and turned his head toward her kinky curls in the darkness of the dorm room. She hadn't turned around.

"The dream. Or—or the memory. The spell. Whatever it was." She was silent for a second, and then, "No one knows what happened, and I hadn't planned on telling anyone. Having someone—having anyone see it is humiliating."

Draco's mind snapped to attention and he felt his hands begin to tremble from an emotion he didn't understand. It was something like nerves, but not quite. He laid there on his back beside her, his gaze honed in on the back of her head, and tried to think of something to say.

He didn't want to fuck this up.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he said in a soft voice. "All right?"

She didn't respond. Instead, he saw her curl into a tighter ball beneath the coverlet.

His heart wrenched, remembering what it had felt like to be inside of her mind while she lie awake, staring at the hotel room's wallpaper. How much her own heart had despaired, and how her anguish wove its way through her veins like blood until the moment she closed her eyes.

He wanted her to know how was there so he could fix it.

_But am I even capable of doing such a thing?_

_Can I fix someone who's pretending not to be broken?_

"We can talk about it when you're ready," he said.

"If."

He turned to face the window again. "If."

As he started to drift off once again, he felt the mattress rocking. He cracked one eye open, and then Granger rolled over. She scooted closer, until her forehead was pressed against the dragon's head—right between his bare shoulder blades. He held his breath, feeling pebbles rising on his skin with every breath she exhaled that brushed against him.

When she burrowed her face into his skin, her nose and lips smoothing across sensitive flesh, he felt his mind begin to whirl. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it—the grey storm of haze and confusion. The smoke that seemed to draw him towards her.

She placed a tentative hand on the wing of the dragon, her palm and fingers tracing the outline of its scales and claws. It felt like his veins were on fire, burning him from the inside out. But even as he burned, he felt his muscles relaxing into the bed, her touch carrying him across the sky on a cloud.

Granger's fingernail moved up and down, arching down to trace the inked flames and thorn-covered branches that were embedded in his skin. She traced his ribs, pausing only when he took in a sharp breath.

"Should I stop?"

"No," he breathed, his voice somewhat gravelly from his exhaustion. He couldn't open his eyes even a fraction. "That feels good."

Draco's eyelids fluttered and his toes curled into the softness of the sheets. He felt relaxed. Soothed, like when his mother would draw on his back as a child. It was comforting and gut-wrenching, all at once.

She resumed her tracing, only her forehead touching him so she could watch her finger travel down to the lowest part of his spine and back up. He felt her fingers touching each and every vertebrae. Sleep drew closer.

"When."

"What?" he mumbled.

" _When_ I'm ready," she whispered.

That would do.

She traced his dragon until he fell asleep.

* * *

_The stars were green._

_They always were in Draco's dreams. Ever since he was a kid, the stars in his dreams were the Slytherin colors, and the sky was silver. It didn't matter what he was doing in the dream—whether playing Quidditch or flying on the back of a dragon—the sky was always the same._

_But when Draco opened his eyes and saw green and silver cosmos, he was confused._

_He hadn't been inside one of his own dreams in five years._

_Sitting up, he saw sprawling hills, distant mountains, and white flowers. The flowers were drifting back and forth with the wind, bathed in faint green moonlight. The mountains were tipped in snow, but it wasn't cold on the hill he sat atop. When he got to his feet, in the distance to the left he could see the ocean stretching the length of the horizon. He glanced to the right and saw more hills and fields of thick, lush grass and glowing white flowers._

Malfoy.

_Well, this was odd. He'd been inside Granger's dreams for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to have one of his own._

_Granger's dreams were always memories—just play-by-plays of her experiences with Potter and the Weaselbee through the years. They could be arbitrary, like studying in the Gryffindor common room or drinking Butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks. Or they could be a little more exciting, like the time that Granger and her friends had infiltrated the Department of Mysteries._

_Draco's dreams were more whimsical, which was in sharp contrast to the way he felt when he was awake. He dreamed of things like flying, riding Abraxans, or sitting and watching the sunset. Peaceful things that didn't cause him fear or concern. He was always alone, with no other humans or civilization nearby, and that was something he'd always liked._

_It felt almost alien to be inside his own head for a change, but he was glad for it._

Malfoy.

_Draco decided to head down the hill towards the white flowers._

_He always had liked flowers. Especially gardenias. They were his mother's favorites, and they were the only bright spot in the Manor. The only part of Lucius that Draco liked. At any given time, fresh gardenias could be found in every windowsill, on every shelf, and in every vase just for Narcissa._

_His lips curved up into a smile. Kneeling down, he plucked a flower out of the ground with a quiet snap. It was a gardenia. They were all gardenias. The aroma was heavenly._

_Eyelids fluttering shut, he inhaled the scent of the flower in his hand and a sense of calm washed over him. Perhaps he would take the flower to the seashore. It would feel like his mother was there with him, watching the water crash along the sand._

_Standing, he turned and headed west across the field._

MALFOY!

_Draco nearly leapt out of his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He whirled around to look behind him._

_Granger._

_She was here._

" _Can you hear me?" she said._

_Draco stared down at her. She wore the same pyjamas she'd been wearing when she came into his room that night, and the breeze was playing with her curls. There was a strange curiosity in her eyes that didn't match the fearful frown on her lips._

" _I guess you can't," she said. "But you can see me."_

" _No, I—" He cleared his throat, the sound of his voice a little jarring. His dreams were usually devoid of words. "I can hear you. Can you hear me?"_

_She nodded. "Is this a memory?"_

" _No, it's—" His brow furrowed. "Granger, the sky is silver and the stars are green. I mean, come on."_

" _Well, I didn't notice!" she said, throwing her hands up into the air. "I was a little busy wondering how the bloody Hell I got into your dream!"_

_Draco bit his lower lip. Was now the perfect time to tell her? He wanted to. He was just scared what she would think. Five years of walking her dreams, watching her life unfold and progress, and he'd never said a thing to her. Not that they were on speaking terms, but . . . He knew he'd be irritated if someone was invading his privacy like that, willing or unwilling._

_If he was ever going to win her trust, he needed to start somewhere._

" _Well, given that I've been watching your dreams for five years now, I'm not as surprised to see you as I probably should be," he said. "I'm trying to figure out what's different."_

 _Her jaw dropped. "You've been doing_ what _?"_

_Draco twirled the flower stem vertically between his forefinger and thumb, grimacing. "Dreamwalking in your dreams for five years?"_

_She was speechless, eyes wide underneath the eerie green light from above. He didn't blame her, knowing how shocked he'd been the first time he dreamed of her the Summer after Third Year. A few moments passed by and then she held her hands to her cheeks._

" _You didn't see that dream I had in Sixth Year, did you?"_

_Draco's face contorted with his confusion. "Wait—what?"_

" _The dream. In Sixth Year, the dream!" She leapt forward and grabbed his wrists, her fingers closing over the twin Golden Snitch tattoos he had on his pulse points. Her eyes were manic. "The one I had about Ronald! Did you see that dream?!"_

_Draco wracked his brain, trying to . . ._

_Oh._

That _dream._

_She saw it when realization dawned, and then she tipped her head back in a groan. Turning away in her mortification, he saw her reach up to tear at her unruly curls._

" _It's not always dreams," he said, grimacing to himself. "It's usually memories. Glimpses of points in your life. They've been chronological, too."_

" _Dreams_ and _memories?" She groaned again, stamping her feet without turning around. "As if that makes it any less_ humiliating _!"_

_Draco twisted his lips and glanced off towards the faraway mountains. During Sixth Year, he'd dreamed of Granger every night. There was one point around Christmas where Granger had dreamed about snogging the Weaselbee underneath a mistletoe. He'd seen the entire thing._

_In the dream, the Gryffindors were both naked._

_So, he remembered the dream well. He'd just purposefully been trying to forget about it for over one year. It was only a dream, so it was highly unlikely dream-Weasley was the same as real-Weasley, but it still felt wrong. Draco didn't want to see anyone nude without their permission,_ especially _the Weaselbee._

_He shuddered, pulling a face._

_The Weaselbee naked. Ew._

" _So, that means you knew where we were."_

" _Huh?" Draco scratched the back of his head. "Where? Who?"_

_She spun to face him, looking shocked. "During the war. If you saw my memories, too, then you must have known where Harry, Ron, and I were the entire year. While we were hunting Horcruxes."_

_Draco opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself. He lowered his gaze in thought._

" _Yeah," he said. "I suppose I did."_

" _And you never outed us." She took a step toward him. "You knew we were in the Forest of Dean for weeks, and you never told your aunt, or your father. Or the Dark Lord."_

_He rubbed the back of his neck._

" _Why?"_

_Draco hung his head. He wished he could tell her it was because he was protecting her, but he couldn't. The only reason why he hadn't told them was because he hadn't realized the dreams were real. He'd thought he was just dreaming about her because she'd cursed him._

_He knew better now._

" _I didn't realize that they were memories at the time," he said. "That's a . . . New development. If I had known they were real, I think I might have given your location up to save my own skin."_

" _I'd call you a prat," she said, clasping her hands behind her back, "but the fact that that would have gotten us killed and lost us the war makes you a little bit worse than that."_

" _At least you haven't deluded yourself into thinking I'm a good person," he said with a small laugh._

" _No, I haven't deluded myself. But I don't think you're a bad person."_

_His heart skipped a beat. What was that supposed to mean?_

_Draco held his hand out, and she took the proffered gardenia from him. She stood there, barefoot in the grass with the fingers of both hands clutching the stem. He watched her lift the petals to her nose so she could smell it._

_If she didn't think he was a bad person, what was it about him that she knew to be true?_

" _You're forgetting that I turned away from you when my aunt was—when you were in the Drawing Room. So, don't convince yourself of my heroics," he said. "I would absolutely have handed the war to the Dark Lord back then."_

" _But, you're different now," she said with an air of finality that told him there was nothing he could say to change her mind. "I think if the Dark Lord returned tomorrow, you'd pick the right side."_

_Draco could feel the blood rushing up to his cheeks, trying to force him into blushing. He ran his fingers through his hair to distract himself from it._

" _I tell you I've been in your dreams for five years, and you're most interested in the fact that I saw your dream about fucking Weaselbee and the fact that I've 'changed,' but you're not the least bit interested in why I was in your head in the first place?"_

_She pressed her lips into a flat line, still gazing down at the gardenia. He could tell she was thinking, so he remained quiet, choosing to listen to the wind rustling through the flowers until she spoke again._

" _I am curious as to why, but I think there's a magical explanation. There's always an explanation. It just may take a bit of research. You said it's memories?"_

" _Yeah, memories," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trackies. His dream had chosen to keep him clad in his pyjamas, too. "The level of hope I have for the naked mistletoe dream to have been just that—a_ dream _—is immense."_

_She let out a short laugh, one that seemed to have escaped her. "Well, that one was a dream. So you can rest easy."_

_Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "You never slept with the Weaselbee? It wasn't just this year that you couldn't?"_

" _No," she said, frowning again. "We never slept together."_

_Draco bit his lip to keep himself from pursuing the conversation further. It wasn't his business, and he never should have said anything. The fact that they were standing here, talking in his dream, was enough to worry about. If she was here talking to him right now, but a few weeks ago, he was in her memory and couldn't seem to extract himself from the inside of her mind and talk to her, then what was different now?_

_Had something changed?_

" _You've been walking my dreams and my memories for five years," Granger said, still looking at the gardenia, "and I never noticed. But now, I'm here inside of your dream. That means we have a connection of some sort, we just don't know what it could be." She looked up at him. "Have you noticed anything else?"_

_He shrugged one shoulder. "Just a sort of . . . Emotional colorblindness."_

" _What is_ emotional colorblindness _?" she asked, her head pulling back on her shoulders in bewilderment._

" _It's like . . . Everything is muted," he said, struggling to find words to describe what he'd been feeling since the end of Third Year. "When it first started, I could barely function. I hardly ate, slept for hours, and rarely got out of bed. My mother thought I was sick. Eventually, I got used to it and she attributed it to stress and depression. I've just accepted it. And when I think things or feel things, it feels . . . Hazy. Capped off."_

" _Grey."_

_They locked gazes, and Draco nodded._

" _Everything is grey," he said. "I can see color, obviously—my eyes work—but it doesn't . . . Matter. It's like its all empty, or—or missing something. And the grey is like a storm of smoke inside me." He pointed the fingers of one hand at his sternum. "I can feel it here. Sometimes, it gets overwhelming. It's like anger—like when you're_ really _angry, but I can't actually_ feel _the anger. The storm is there, but there's nothing inside of it."_

_Granger held the gardenia with one hand and tapped her chin with the other. "It sounds like a curse."_

_He paused, averting his eyes. "Oh, I know."_

_She gave him a sharp look, and when he looked at her again, he knew she'd caught on._

" _Well, it's definitely not a curse," she said in a clipped tone. "You say five years. That's . . . Fourth Year?"_

" _End of Third Year. Right after you punched me."_

 _She scowled. "Come off it. That was_ hardly _a punch. It was a slap."_

" _You made my nose bleed."_

" _No, it was a slap."_

" _Granger."_

" _It was a slap!"_

_He sighed. "Keep telling yourself that."_

" _I will! I_ will _keep telling myself that!" Then, with a furious hand, she practically slammed the gardenia in place behind her ear. The flower added a bit of light to her face, making her look pretty in a way that Draco found himself unable to look away from. But before he could think of what to say, she shoved past him._

" _Where are you off to?"_

" _To sit by the water. Come on—it's not that far."_

_Draco fell in-step beside her, and they walked across the grass towards the seashore. The closer they got, the heavier the air felt. Its salty scent grew thicker and more heady, and a sense of peace settled over him in a way that made his lips curve into a soft smile. He wondered what it would be like to sit by the sea with Granger in reality like he used to with his mother._

_He could feel that something had shifted between them, too. He wasn't sure if it was on Granger's part or his own, but it didn't feel like he was scaling a thousand kilometer wall any longer. Something felt inevitable between them, like the passage of time. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, but he didn't think he'd be seeing it happen without Granger in some position in his life._

_In a strange way, it was exciting._

" _I think," Granger said as their feet crossed from grass to thick, cool sand, "that we'll have to research it when we awaken."_

" _Right when we awaken?" He chuckled._

_She stumbled in the shifting grains, and his hand shot out to wrap around her own. To his surprise, she squeezed it and held on while they made their way closer to the water. Her words continued._

" _No, we have class, idjit. But I'm going to get started as soon as I can and once we both have free time, we should go to the Library and see what we can find. Because according to Professor Trelawney, dreamwalking is time-space magic—it's not Divination. I think we're going to have to check the Astronomy section."_

" _Do you think the answer will be there?"_

" _Maybe." She slipped again and he pulled on her hand, keeping her upright. "At the least, it'll be a good start. The only thing I can think of that's similar to this sort of connection is us having touched the same cursed object—which I highly doubt we would have done in our Third Year—or it's a soulmate bond. Which is just . . ."_

_They looked at each other, searching their eyes for a moment. She was giggling uncontrollably, like she'd never heard of anything so absurd before. Draco felt the hilarity bubbling in his chest._

_Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy_ soulmates _?_

_They burst out laughing at the same time, fingers still wrapped around one another's. Their laughter ripped through their guts, causing them to double over. Tears of mirth gathered in Draco's eyes, and he saw her wiping her own away._

" _It's probably something inadvertent," Granger said, still laughing. "Because the alternative is just—"_

" _Mental."_

" _Exactly."_

_She was still stifling hysterical giggles as they found a massive piece of driftwood to sit on. Draco kept hold of her hand to assist her in sitting, and then he sat down next to her. Resting his elbows on his knees, he wrapped one hand around the opposite wrist and gazed out to sea._

" _This is weird," she said._

" _Yeah," he said, voice somewhat gravelly._

" _Like, really weird. I'm in your dream, talking to you. And in real life, I'm just . . . Asleep next to you."_

" _Yeah."_

_They sat and watched the waves kiss the shore for what felt like hours. The soft sounds mingling with the somewhat forceful whip of the oceanside wind offered a strangely familiar sconce within which to exist. It wasn't uncomfortable, perhaps because this was Draco's dream and he was in control. He knew that nothing could happen here that he didn't want to happen. No one could hurt them by this sea._

_Maybe she knew that, and that was why she had linked her arm through his and put her head on his shoulder._

_Draco wondered what would happen when they woke up._

" _Is it all right if I call you Draco?" Her voice was quiet, swallowed by the immensity of the sea._

" _Yeah," he said in a voice that was just as soft. He tried to glance down at her, but instead got a face full of curls. "You can call me Draco."_

_He saw her tracing the outline of the ravens he'd gotten tattooed on the outer part of his right forearm. "And you can call me Hermione."_

" _All right." His heart was racing, and he couldn't place the reason why._

_She drew circles around one raven's eye. In spite of the sensitivity of his skin, there was a tension in the air that kept Draco frozen. He feared that if he moved, it would shatter._

" _Draco, I . . ."_

" _Hm?"_

" _Earlier, when you asked me what I would say if you asked me if you could kiss me, I wasn't clear enough. Do you remember?"_

_His heart nearly tore its way out of his chest. He forced himself to stay as calm and still as possible. It was quite literally four or five hours ago, so of course he remembered, but he wasn't going to destroy any sort of moment they were having with sarcasm._

" _I do."_

" _I should have been more honest."_

" _And what would you have said?" he murmured, watching the waves on the choppy sea with intensity._

" _I think I would have said—I mean, I'd like to think I would have said yes." Her fingers moved down his forearm, tracing his prominent veins. "I haven't exactly kissed many wizards, but I think it might be all right with you."_

" _A week ago, you were avoiding me."_

" _No," she countered, "a week ago_ you _were avoiding_ me _."_

" _Well, you slapped me."_

" _Well, you yell at me for the dishes. And, what? What about it?" She lifted her head, her arm remaining linked with his and her hand curving over his fingers on his wrist. A glare was affixed to her face. "We all have stupid things we get angry over."_

_He glared down at her. "Having a clean common room is not stupid. It's basic human decency."_

" _Because you're the expert on basic human decency. Not you, the boy who went out of his way to bully me when we were kids. I know_ you're _not the one saying this to me."_

_Annoyance broiled in the heat of his stomach. "Not the witch who was bullied by me telling me she wants me to kiss her."_

" _Not the wizard pretending he doesn't want to kiss me by way of deflection," she snapped, giving his face a once-over._

" _Not you pretending like it wouldn't be the scandal of the fucking century if I did."_

" _Not you acting like it ever has to leave the confines of your dream."_

_Draco looked at her with scorching hot anger for two seconds before he felt the grey storm rising inside of his body. It drowned everything else he felt out, fading into a firestorm of multicolored desire. The way she was looking at him, like she wanted to throttle him until he died, was quite possibly the most attractive thing he'd ever seen._

_Maybe he'd just gone mental._

_He surged forward, dipping his head down to press his lips against hers. It was just for a moment, because he didn't want to mistake her comments for consent if they weren't, and then he pulled back. Her lips had been as soft as the gardenia petals and when he'd kissed her, the storm seemed to have quieted down._

_Her eyes were as wide as saucers—like she'd seen a ghost._

" _There," she said, her voice quivering. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"_

" _No," he said, resisting the urge to laugh. "But what was it for? Practice for the Weaselbee's sake?"_

" _No. It was for me."_

_She laid her head on his shoulder again, wrapping both of her arms around his right arm. Draco's lips twisted up into a half of a smile, and he looked out to sea again. He knew when they woke, they'd have to discuss the fact that she'd been in his dream like this. They'd also have to figure out why he'd been dreaming of her for so long. Eventually, they'd have to talk about Paris. But the rest?_

_The rest could stay here in this dream, witnessed by the sea._

* * *

Draco walked her to Divination.

It was the least he could do, seeing as he'd kissed her and everything. They hadn't discussed it and when he'd woken, she was already gone from his room. But he knew it wouldn't be very respectful of him as a Pureblood wizard if he kissed a witch and then made her walk to class alone. Since he couldn't find her before Charms, he made a point to find her before Divination and offer to walk her there.

She'd been with a Seventh Year wizard at the time, whose eyebrows had shot up into the mop of brown hair on his head when Draco had interrupted them. Hermione had been surprised, given that her after-lunch class was on the complete opposite side of the castle from his, but she'd recovered quickly. Ignoring the Seventh Year's shock, she'd agreed to let Draco escort her, and they'd set off.

Things weren't awkward between them, which was a relief. He'd thought they'd be doomed to be in a tension-induced limbo for the rest of the year. It was just a peck on the lips, but after what had happened to her, he knew that was monumental for her.

At least, he thought it might be.

One thing was curious to him.

When Hermione was with the Weaselbee, she hadn't wanted him to touch her. That was understandable, given the events in Paris. However, that was her best mate of seven, almost eight years.

Why would she be okay with _Draco_ —the wizard who had bullied the shite out of her for just as long— _snogging_ her?

"Did you exercise this morning?" he asked, trying to make conversation as they wove through the crowded corridors. They were getting quite a few interested looks, given that Draco was a terrible Head Boy. The two of them were almost never seen together, yet now they were walking down the hall side-by-side. Whereas he wore a pair of trousers and a black jumper underneath open black robes, she wore her robes closed and her curly hair up in a pile atop her head.

"Huh?" she said, her Charms textbook hugged to her chest. Her head snapped up to look at him. "What do you—I was—what do you mean?"

"I mean, did you exercise this morning? You weren't in bed when I woke up."

There was a small moment of regret as he realized how domestic it sounded to say those words, but he shrugged it off.

"Oh . . . Um . . ." She kept her eyes on the corridor ahead. "Yeah. I did for a little bit. I wasn't running off on you, or anything."

"I didn't think you had," he said, combing his hair back. "And it's not as if we fucked, or anything."

She coughed, clearing her throat. He looked down at her, seeing her eyes watering from trying to catch her breath. He felt a bit guilty for his vulgarity coming so easily to him.

Had he just reminded her of Paris?

"Forgive me," he murmured and then he placed a hesitant hand on her upper back as they turned down a mostly-empty corridor. "I didn't mean to remind you of—"

" _Ahhh—ah,_ no _,"_ she said, holding one hand up to his mouth. Her cheeks tinged darker. "Don't say anything. It's okay. Forgiven."

He wanted to kiss her fingers. He didn't know why—he just did.

"Let's just get to class."

She set off, forcing him to catch up.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Draco knowing that anything he wanted to talk about with her could make things turn volatile fast. The loo, the food packaging in the couch, the fact that they'd kissed, the exercise. It was all off-limits.

For now.

When they made it up the stairs, the previous class was trying to file out while their class was attempting to file in. This wasn't abnormal—Trelawney's classes often ran late. It didn't stop the grumbles of irritation coming from both sets of students, though.

"Here, come here," Draco said to Hermione, putting his hand lightly on the back of her neck and drawing her to the side.

They stood there against the stairwell wall as ten or so students trundled on down the steps. He watched them go by, wondering to himself for a brief second if what he was doing was too forward. He'd done this to Theo and Pansy—and to Crabbe, and anyone who was shorter than him—for years. However, Hermione was different.

She didn't seem to think anything of it. In fact, it felt like she was leaning back into his chest, but he couldn't be sure.

He glanced down at her and frowned, his hand still wrapped around the back of her neck. "Granger?"

Slowly, she tilted her head back until it was resting fully against his pectoral. Her eyes seemed unfocused as they gazed up into his. Her lips curved up into a lazy, almost coy smile. "Yes, Draco?"

"Are you all right? You're swaying a bit."

"Hm?" Her brows twitched together. "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

The previous class finally gone, the new class was able to start pouring into Trelawney's room. Draco didn't move his hand, feeling paranoid that she might topple over if he did. He knew their peers would see him holding onto her like that, but he was actually growing concerned. This was the umpteenth time she'd suddenly gone unfocused.

"Are you sure—"

"Draco, mate!" Blaise's voice from behind caused Draco to turn. "Why are you blocking the . . . Hey, Granger."

A series of events took place, one right after the other.

Blaise came to a stop two steps below them. Behind him, Pansy's head peeked over his left shoulder. Blaise's gaze landed on Draco's hand on Hermione, and his eyes widened. Pansy cast Draco a wary look, likely due to the strange behavior she'd been exhibiting, and then zeroed in on Hermione. Hermione looked over her shoulder and gave both Blaise and Pansy a polite smile.

"Afternoon, Zabini, Parkinson." Her voice was still a bit faint. "Sorry—we'll move. Come, Draco."

She slipped out of Draco's grasp, who stood there with a bemused expression on his face. He had no idea how to explain this.

"I knew you were a bloody liar," Pansy spat, storming past Blaise and past Draco. She hissed up into his face. "She must have the cunt of a fucking _queen_ for you to ignore the fact that she's full of _mud_."

And then she went into the classroom.

Draco clenched his hand into a fist at his side and turned a sharp glare down to Blaise. "Have you got anything to say, too, then?"

"So, I take it you didn't tell her about the tea," Blaise said, his mouth tilting with sympathy. "If she's greeting Pansy like that."

"What the fuck are you on about?"

But Blaise was already entering the class.

Draco's mind raced, memories fitting together like cogs in a Muggle machine. Remnants of the conversations he'd had with Pansy and Blaise, Paris, and the way Hermione had been unable to see just before they both went under.

" _You wouldn't know poison if you drank it in your tea."_

No.

That didn't—

 _Pansy_?

If the fact that Hermione had been forced to relive that nightmare—and he had been forced to experience it with her—was in any way Pansy's fault, Draco was going back to Azkaban.

He turned, his blood aflame with steadily-growing rage, and went to his seat. Trelawney was at the chalkboard, erasing some things she had written. The other students in the class were engaged in amiable chats all across the room. Blaise was looking down at the tattoo on his hand, which was almost done healing. Hermione was sifting through her notes from the last class period.

Pansy was glaring at her.

Draco sunk into his seat, then turned to face his friends' table.

"Pansy," he growled, drawing her glare in his direction, "what the _fuck_ did you do?"

She looked confused for a moment, her blue eyes glinting with defensiveness, and then her eyebrows went up. The color drained from her face, turning it whiter than white. Right as she started to reply, Trelawney began the lecture.

Draco watched, vibrating with ire as Pansy tore off a corner of her note-taking parchment and wrote something down on it with her quill. Sliding it across the small round table, Blaise took it and passed it over. Draco's eyes gave it a quick scan.

_I'm sorry._

_I just hate her so much._


	17. Chapter 17

** Apricity – Chapter Fifteen **

Waiting for Divination to end was a nightmare.

Draco was on fire underneath his skin. Hermione was smiling at him quite a bit, with the same sorts of face-lighting smiles that he'd always seen her give her friends when he was staring at her across the Great Hall. Laughing, too. She seemed to find him funny, or charming, or someone enjoyable.

She hadn't the slightest clue that he was burning with rage.

Pansy wouldn't look at him. He knew she knew that he was livid. There was fear in her eyes, dancing there like flickering candlelight. Blaise seemed to have caught on, too, given that he kept giving Draco sympathetic looks.

He couldn't be angry with Blaise—he'd tried to tell him as much as his Slytherin loyalty would allow.

At the front of the class, Trelawney was reviewing content for the exam. This was the final week before the three week holiday started, and their exam was on Friday. She didn't seem to be aware that while most of the class was paying attention, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy were otherwise distracted.

A few minutes before class ended, Draco felt eyes on him. He glanced over to the left, seeing Hermione looking back at him. But the moment their eyes met, her attention snapped back to the front.

Was she . . . Staring at him?

He watched her for a moment longer, crossing his arms over his chest as he relaxed back in his seat, and he wondered how much things were going to change between them. Even though it had been in the safety of a dream, they'd still kissed. If the Paris memory hadn't changed things between them, the kiss had to have.

He wondered if her lips were as soft in real life as they were in his mind.

After class, Draco's heated glare zeroed in on Pansy. She gave him a look that hovered somewhere between guilt and fear, hopped up, and gathered her things up as fast as lightning. He got to his feet, ready to corner her before she left, but Blaise stood up just as quick.

"Now, just chill out for a second, mate," Blaise murmured, sending surreptitious glances around at the other students. He placed a hand to the center of Draco's chest. "There's no need to cause a _scene_."

Draco clenched his jaw as he watched Pansy rush out of the room without looking over her shoulder. Hermione was close behind her. She gave Draco a small wave and then disappeared down the steps.

His glare snapped to meet Blaise's eyes.

"What did she put in her tea?" he hissed.

"She didn't put anything _into_ her tea," Blaise replied, turning and curving his hand around the top of Draco's shoulder. He led him towards the stairwell. "But let's talk about it when we get out of here."

They set off down the stairs and when they got to the bottom of the tower, into the corridor, the other students were already a good distance away on their way to supper. Draco could see Hermione was trying to weave her way through the crowd the way she always did—like it was annoying to have to be polite.

"All right, I'll tell you," Blaise said, hand on his hip. He jabbed Draco in the chest with his pointer finger. "But _you_ have to stop being so bloody angry."

Draco's blood boiled. "I'm not angry."

"You are," Blaise said, "and I'm not saying anything until you're not brassed off any longer."

"I'm _not_ angry."

"I'm not saying a damn thing."

"I'm _not fucking angry, Blaise_!" Draco roared, his voice echoing in the now-empty corridor. He scrubbed his face with his hands and took a deep breath. "All right. I'm angry. But I'm not going to go mental and start slinging hexes. If Pansy poisoned her, then I want to know it."

"What are you gonna do if she did?" Blaise's brows arched up. "Because I can't see you walking up to McGonagall and ratting out your best friend."

"You're right," Draco said. "I wouldn't turn my back on a Housemate. _However_ —if she poisoned Granger's tea, then I need to have words with her."

" _Non-violent_ words."

"Yes, Blaise," Draco drawled. "Obviously."

"All right, well . . . Remember how I was talking about Borgin and Burke's, the fey tea, all that . . . ?" When Draco gave him a curt nod, he continued, "When we went to Borgin's, Pansy was right worked up and ready for a row. She saw the tea and it was a matter of wrong place, wrong time. As soon as she found out what it could do, she bought it."

"And what was it that it could _do_?" Draco struggled to keep his anger levels low.

"It was a tea that on humans, induces a hallucinatory effect. A severe one. Pansy wanted to humiliate her."

"But that was more than a hallucination," Draco snarled, brow furrowing and fists clenching. "She relived her worst memory, Blaise!"

Blaise grimaced. "That could be because of the Divination spell—the one for the tea leaves, for vision induction. I think . . . I think the spell's effects changed because of the fey tea. So, instead of inducing a dream—"

"—it induced a nightmare." Draco ran his hands up his cheeks in distress, and then tangled his fingers in his hair. He groaned, the sound ending on a scowl. "Fuck, Blaise! You don't . . . I can't explain, so this won't make sense to you, but what Pansy did wasn't harmless. Like, at _all_."

"So . . . Then how come you passed out, too?"

"I don't know," Draco said, frowning at the stone ground beneath their feet. "We're still trying to figure it out. But what I _do_ know is that that tea is the reason why the spell went array. Pansy did this, and she needs to make it right."

Before Blaise could say another word, Draco turned in a swirl of his robes and marched towards the Great Hall.

* * *

Pansy sat at the Slytherin table, in a rather animated conversation with Theo.

Draco glanced to the right, searching for Hermione. She was at the Gryffindor table and it was a high volume food day. Her plate was piled up with a variety of food, she was eating without taking breaks between bites, and she wasn't saying a word to her friends around her.

Not that they ever noticed when she ate like this—they just kept talking and laughing as though she weren't even there.

His gaze slid to the end of the table.

Weaselbee was there, surrounded by other members of the House. He was laughing uproariously at something Dean Thomas was saying, the two of them clapping one another on the back as they howled.

Draco fought the urge to sneer. How was it that he got to treat Hermione like arse, cheat on her multiple times, and then end up as happy as could be? And meanwhile, she came to Draco's bed because a nightmare wouldn't let her sleep.

Fist curling at his side, he narrowed his eyes at Weasley's red hair and freckled face. If Hermione hadn't made it clear she was trying to keep the friendship, Draco would be dealing with him. But the situation with Pansy was different. Pansy wasn't Hermione's friend and never had been. It wasn't as complicated with her.

The Weaselbee would have to wait.

He went to sit on the other side of Pansy, straddling the bench and placing his hand over the hand of hers that held her fork. The ravenette gave him a wide-eyed, fearful look. Beside her, Theo's bewildered gaze bounced between the two of them.

"I know what you did," Draco said, "and I know you feel guilty about it. So, you might as well save us both the hassle of discussing it. Apologize to Granger."

Pansy's upper lip curled and she dropped her fork with a clatter, into her pasta. She tried to snatch her hand back, but Draco held tighter. She snapped at him.

"I _don't_ feel guilty. At least, not anymore. Now that I know for certain you're boffing her."

"You're _what_?" Theo's eyes nearly fell out of his head and he set his own utensil down. He gave Draco a strange look—one that made Draco feel a bit defensive. "You and Granger are together?"

"I told you I wasn't boffing her," Draco growled, and then he looked at Theo. "No, we're not together. But we're friends, and _Pansy_ thought it would be funny to poison Granger's tea a few weeks back."

Theo's eyebrows shot up. "Pansy—why would you do that?"

"Because," Pansy said, tone cutting as she turned her glare to Theo, "I hate her. I'm sick of her. I've been sick of her for years. This year, seeing her marching around with her nose in the air was one year too many."

Draco studied her, sifting through his memories of the past few weeks. There were multiple times that Pansy had either apologized or showed through her actions that she felt contrite over something. But the question remained as to why she'd done it in the first place.

And only one answer made sense.

"Jealousy isn't an attractive trait, Pansy," Draco said, gripping her hand tight. "Especially when you and I were never meant to be more than a glorified series of hook-ups. And I don't care how little guilt you feel—you're apologizing."

"No, I'm not!" Pansy said, nearly screeching. "I'm not jealous! I'm seeing Blaise, and you _know_ that!"

"Then why'd you do it?"

"Because I wanted to. She's annoying, she's loud, she thinks she's better than everyone else, she—"

"You're jealous."

" _I'm not jealous_!" she shrieked.

"Apologize."

" _No_."

"You _should_ apologize," Theo said, his lips twisting downward. Draco wanted to feel grateful for his support, but a wall inside his chest wouldn't let him. He didn't want or need Theo's help when it came to Hermione. "We're not kids anymore, and poisoning someone's tea—er, giving them the wrong tea—could have gotten you arrested if it went wrong."

"Theo!" Pansy hissed, and then she looked at both boys, one after the other. "Since when do _either_ of you care about the law, or what happens to Hermione Granger?!"

Draco's mind flashed with images of Paris and the dark alleyway. Hermione's desperate cries. Her nails against the brick wall. The pain.

Since then.

"You were happy to apologize to me when I woke up on the classroom floor the day you did it," Draco quipped. "Why not now?"

"Apologizing to _you_ is one thing. I feel guilty that it somehow affected you," Pansy said, brows pulling together. "But that wasn't my intention. I don't know if you drank her tea by accident, or what, but it wasn't meant for you."

"And if it had killed her?"

"What?"

" _And if it had killed her?_ "

Pansy's eyes narrowed. "It _didn't_. It _didn't_ kill her, so don't try to make it into something it's not."

Just then, Blaise walked up. He sat down across from them, resting his elbows on the table. Pansy immediately set in on him.

"This is _your_ fault, innit? You _told_ him about Borgin's. You _told_ him about the tea! So much for loyalty amongst the House, yeah?"

"It wasn't because I care about Granger, or anything!" Blaise said, throwing his hands into the air. "I just know how precarious our position is here at Hogwarts. We're all on some form of parole, Pansy—we can't be giving the members of the Golden Trio Seelie Court tea! And that is what I _tried_ to tell you when we were in Knockturn."

"Well, you certainly didn't try very hard to _stop_ me." Pansy sneered and glared at the food on the table. "I don't feel bad that I did it, but I'm not a complete monster. I feel bad that it went wrong."

"Apologize, Pansy," Draco growled through his teeth, eyes blazing. "Apologize to her, or we're gonna have a serious problem."

Pansy pursed her lips. " _Fine_. I'll do it, but I'm not going to pretend to be happy about it, and I _don't_ mean it. In fact, I wish that the tea had actually . . ."

She trailed off as the flames in Draco's eyes intensified, and the anger in hers ebbed. It gave her fear away. Blaise and Theo exchanged glances.

"I'd think carefully about finishing your fucking sentence, Pansy," Draco said in a low voice. "Because I've got nothing to lose."

"Draco, mate—you need to _calm down_ ," Blaise said, laughing somewhat nervously. He pinched his forefinger and thumb together and held them to his lips, feigning smoking. "Do you need some . . . ? I can get you some when Pansy and I go to London this weekend."

Draco shot him a look of approval as he stood up. He gestured to Pansy. "Pansy, come on. Let's go. Up."

"Whatever," she said, and then she got to her feet.

As she set off across the Great Hall, Draco followed. There was no way he was letting her talk to Hermione without him being at her side. With how angry Pansy was, he knew there was a high probability that she wouldn't apologize at all. She'd say something awful, and then it would make everything worse.

Draco wasn't going to let Pansy hurt her again.

They came to a stop behind a couple of younger Gryffindors who were facing Hermione. Across the table, she looked up from her plate, cheeks stuffed full and eyes blinking rapidly as they darted back and forth between Draco and Pansy both. Almost the entire table was looking at them now— _including_ the Weaselbee—but Draco couldn't be bothered with that at the moment.

Pansy crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm _sorry_ ," she said in a voice that was rank with begrudging sarcasm. "I shouldn't have done what I did and if I had known the spell was going to affect it, then I wouldn't have touched your tea. So . . . Yeah. That's it."

"Wait—what?" Hermione finished chewing her food and set her fork down. "What are you talking about?"

Pansy scowled.

Draco elbowed her. "Pansy."

" _Ugh—_ fine!" She groaned. "That day in Divination—the day you and Draco both passed out—I switched out your tea. When I _dropped my quill_ ," she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers to emphasize, "it was just for a distraction. Blaise talked to you right when I went to grab it specifically so I could switch out your leaves for a tea that I bought at Borgin's. It was _supposed_ to be a harmless hallucinatory experience, but I guess the spell Trelawney taught us interfered."

Draco bristled, his gaze snapping back to the Slytherin table. Blaise met it and grimaced. Either he could hear all the way over there, or he knew what he'd done wrong. No wonder he'd been trying to tell Draco for so long.

He'd had something to feel guilty about, too.

"You . . . You poisoned my tea?" Hermione looked horrified, and the Gryffindors around her appeared shocked into speechlessness.

"Yes," Pansy said, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. "I did. And Draco wanted me to apologize. So, I'm sorry." Then, she turned to glare at Draco. " _Happy_?"

Draco said nothing.

He expected Hermione to say something overtly polite. Perhaps something that alluded to empty forgiveness. She'd never been much of a fighter, from what he could tell, but she was excellent at defending herself with a good tongue lashing.

He did not expect her to leap up, launch herself over the table, and grab Pansy by the hair.

Draco barely managed to step out of the way as the two witches crashed to the ground, Hermione's robes dragging plates, bowls, cups, and food to the stone with them. They rolled about, yanking and pulling and scratching.

Pansy was screeching like a banshee. Hermione was yelling something about being _"sick of it_." Half of the student body was standing up, watching in amused awe as the kneazle-fight ensued. The other half sat rooted to the benches in astonishment. Theo and Blaise were on their feet, dashing over, as were several professors and the Headmistress.

It was chaos.

When Pansy somehow managed to get Hermione under her and slam her head against the stone floor, Draco snapped out of his reverie. Without thinking, he grabbed Pansy by the arm and hauled her backward with all of his strength. Right as he dragged her kicking and yowling back over to the nearest bench, Weasley came skidding to a halt at the scene.

"What the fuck is your problem, Malfoy?!" he roared, spittle flying and skin flushed red with rage. "Why are you bringing your snake venom over here to bother Hermione?!"

"Shut up, Ron!" Hermione screeched, sitting up with her curly hair a mess and wiping blood from her nose with the back of her hand. Her honey-brown eyes looked aflame with ire. "Just shut the bloody Hell up!"

"Don't tell me to shut up! I'm only trying to help you!" Ron yelled.

"I don't need or want your help, and the fact that you think that I'd want it is _laughable_! You've slept with half of Gryffindor House, so if anyone needs help it's _you_ in the _Infirmary_!"

A rush of hushed murmurs swept through the room. Theo, Blaise, and the professors came jogging up, everyone talking at once. Pansy wrenched herself out of Draco's grasp, tears of anger streaming down her face as she plopped down on the bench facing outward, wringing pumpkin juice out of her hair.

Chaos was beginning to rise once again.

Hermione staggered to her feet, stumbling forward with some sort of pasta sauce all over her hands. She pitched to the side, into the Weaselbee's chest. He let out a sound of shock and disgust at the sight of the sauce and shoved her to the left. Whether it was because it caught her off guard or because she was one-third his size, she tripped and almost fell over again.

" _Augh—Ronald!"_ Hermione shrieked, sounding not only like she'd completely lost her mind, but like she was on the verge of hyperventilation. " _Don't push me_!"

The Weaselbee was rubbish.

Someone who was supposed to be Hermione's best friend had turned into a complete tosser the moment he laid claim to her as his witch and he had treated her like dirt. He'd taken her wand and purposely left it in the hotel room in Paris, inadvertently causing her to be assaulted. He'd cheated on her with multiple witches and had the nerve to try and pressure her in the hallway of their dorm. He'd told her she looked like a slag just for wearing a short dress.

He was _rubbish._

Draco snapped. What was left of his sanity completely shattered. He saw red and practically leapt towards the Weaselbee. He grabbed him by the front of his robes, one fist rearing back.

" _Draco_!"

Hermione's enraged voice pulled him out of the crimson haze. He looked up at her. She was still shaking sauce off of her hands. Her teeth were bared.

"Get _away_ from him."

Draco hesitated. He saw that Theo was at her side now, his hand on her back. Blaise was at Pansy's, sitting beside her on the bench.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Mr. Malfoy. You'd do well to listen to Miss Granger."

He looked down at Weaselbee, who was glowering right back at him as though to dare him to swing. And he wanted to swing— _badly_. But if Hermione didn't want him to, then he wouldn't.

Yet.

The other professors set about getting the rest of the students in the Great Hall to turn back to their dinners, marching up and down the walkways to tell them there was nothing to see. Blaise assisted Pansy with getting cleaned up. Draco stood there, brushing his robes free of dust. Hermione stood still as Theo used his wand to _scourgify_ the food mess from her clothes and skin. She gave him a quick, small smile of gratitude that didn't reach her eyes.

Draco didn't like the way Theo smiled back.

"I should take all of you straight up to my office to handle this," McGonagall said, her tone as cold as ice. She looked more than angry. "I'm disappointed in all of you, given that you're all Eighth Year students! Here you are—acting like _children_."

Draco didn't care. Weaselbee deserved it, and more.

"But I won't, given that tensions are high." She gave Hermione a meaningful look, one that showed Draco that Hermione must have discussed the break-up with her. "However, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, and Mr. Weasley—you each owe me thirty-six inches on House pride and proper decorum at Hogwarts."

Everyone grumbled their agreements, and then McGonagall ordered them all back to their seats. Blaise and Pansy walked away first, neither of them giving a second glance in Hermione's direction. The Weaselbee gave Hermione one last conflicted look before he went back to his own spot near Dean Thomas. Theo remained at Hermione's side, his arm now fully around her shoulders as he talked to her in a low murmur with his head ducked down close.

The way she was looking up at him, into his eyes as she answered, was not something Draco liked, either.

He approached them, withdrawing his wand and vanishing the mess of food and dishes from the floor that Theo had ignored. "Are you all right, Hermione?"

Theo straightened. "First name basis now?"

"We're friends, Theo," Draco said, holding his gaze in spite of the way his irritation was rising. "Friends call each other by their first names."

"I need to go," Hermione suddenly said.

She spun out of Theo's grasp, reached for her satchel, and then left.

Theo and Draco let out a simultaneous sigh and then looked at one another. Draco was fairly certain now that Theo fancied her, he just wasn't sure if he had the right or the means to do anything about it. Yeah, Draco had kissed her in a dream.

What if Theo had already kissed her in real life?

Well, that just wouldn't do.

"I'll see you later," Theo said.

Draco watched him go for a drawn-out moment, then felt eyes on him. He looked down into the faces of several Gryffindors who watched him with curiosity. The moment his withering stare landed on them, they looked away.

He went back to the Slytherin table.

* * *

That night, Hermione came to his door again.

He crossed his arms and shouldered the door frame. A smirk graced his features.

"Well, well. Look what the kneazle dragged in."

"Put a bloody shirt on," she said with a scowl, shoving past him into his dorm room. She wore pink pyjamas—a pair of silk trousers and a long-sleeved button up that dwarfed her.

Draco looked down at himself. He wore black trackies and no shirt again. Dragging his hand backward through his hair, he turned to face her while kicking the door shut behind him. He wandered over to his dresser, where he rummaged for a clean shirt.

She sat down on the edge of his bed, dropping her head into her hands. Draco paused on his way back to the bed, feeling a tiny nagging in the back of his mind.

"That was something today," he said in a nonchalant tone, sinking down onto the side of the bed he always slept on. He felt like the right half of his body was prickling, the hairs standing at attention and reaching toward hers.

"Just—" Her voice sounded thick. Beleaguered. Exhausted. "Just drop it. I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," he said. "Then at least tell me what's going on with you. Because you're not the type of witch to get into fights, and to be frank, you're a lot bitchier this year than you have been in previous years."

"And you're the expert on all things Hermione?" she cried, lifting her head from her hands. Draco glanced at them, the opalescent moonlight casting him enough light to see that they were trembling. "Godric, Draco! Just leave me alone!"

His hackles rose. "You're in my fucking room, and you want _me_ to leave _you_ alone?"

" _Leave me alone!"_ she screamed, her voice echoing. "Please, okay? I just want you to leave . . . Me alone."

In the thick, tense silence, Draco felt guilt settling over him and pulling him forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He laced his fingers and stared at the floor, contemplating what to do.

"I'm just so sick of this," Hermione said.

"Sick of what?" he replied, sitting up straight. "Sick of me?"

"I'm sick of the pressure. It feels like everyone wants me to be a certain way, or act a certain way. And then when I do, I'm insufferable and nobody likes me. No one likes me, and then I get my tea _poisoned_ for no reason other than—than her not liking me!" Hermione let out an incredulous, mirthless laugh. "It's unreal. My life is _un_ real. I just _hate_ my . . ." She trailed off.

"Your life?" He turned to look at her, but her back was to him.

"Myself."

Her voice was a whisper, cracking like it was choked off in her throat. His heart skipped a beat—he recognized that tone from the night after Hogsmeade.

She was going to cry.

Draco stood up and walked around the bed. He knelt down beside her, positioning himself in a crouch. He placed his right hand on the mattress beside her and his other hand on his thigh, giving her enough distance so she wouldn't feel like he was crowding her. Then, he looked up into her face.

She looked forlorn. Lips curling down into a pout, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped with dejection. Her curls looked to have been pulled up into a messy sort of updo that wasn't holding them well. In the pyjamas, she seemed frail.

"Why?" he said, because he knew what that was like.

She lowered her gaze to her lap. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Try."

"I don't want to, Draco," she whined, her voice trembling. "Please? I just want to sleep. I'm . . . I'm _humiliated_ by the way I acted today, and I couldn't even sleep for twenty minutes without . . . Ever since having to relive it, I just can't stop _dreaming_ about it. I'd put it somewhere inside me. I had _put_ it somewhere else where I could _forget_ it happened and I—I—I just—"

She was hyperventilating now, taking in more breaths than she was letting out. He could see her legs shaking, one of them bouncing in agitation like it had the times he'd seen in the Great Hall. Draco felt his heart and stomach twisting together into one mass and in the next two seconds, he was sitting beside her on the bed.

"Hey," he said in a gentle tone. "It's okay. We can sleep."

One more inhalation, and then he saw her close her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it out, and a tear escaped the confines of her lashes. Her chin and mouth quivered.

"I had a routine," she said in a high-pitched voice. "I had a routine where any time I felt those feelings come back up—those reminders—I could get rid of them quickly. But now, I can't. No matter how hard I try, I can't forget it again." She looked up at him, tears continuing to roll unchecked down her cheeks. Draco's brow had furrowed and his heart was racing, hovering between hatred for the man and anguish for her for everything he'd seen. "I want to go back to that day and never drink the tea."

"Hermione—"

"I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep. I just . . ."

She broke apart like a fallen porcelain doll, her pieces lying shattered on the floor. Sobs ripped through her body, gut-wrenching in the way they made her entire body shake with violence. It was the same sort of weeping that he'd heard in her memory, when she was on the floor at the foot of the bed, desperate for reprieve.

Draco didn't think about it. He didn't think about decorum or whether or not he was going to scare her or make things awkward. He thought about nothing.

He wrapped his arms around her, one hand sinking into the curls at the back of her head beneath the tie holding her hair up. The other curved fully from shoulder to shoulder, pressing her against his side until she turned her face into his chest and wailed into his shirt.

"Come here," he murmured. He didn't know what he was doing—he was just doing what he wanted to. "Come here, to me."

She curled her legs up and across his lap. Her hands wrapped themselves in the fabric of his shirt, pulling until he thought she might tear it if he tried to put any space between them. She clung to him as though they were in that hotel room, and she just needed someone to hold her.

"Try to breathe," he said when her weeping began to sound somewhat strangled and her body shook.

"I-I can't," she gasped between sobs, her tears slick on his skin. "I c-can't b-b-breathe. I d-d-don't w-want to."

Draco tightened his hold on her, remembering the alcove and how she'd asked him to hold her tighter. She felt so small in his arms and he didn't know if it was because she was broken and he was the only thing holding her pieces together, or if it was because she really was that fragile.

Hermione Granger wasn't supposed to be fragile, but he supposed that type of thinking was what had caused her so much stress.

Slowly, her breathing began to return to normal as she inhaled and exhaled through her continued crying.

"Good girl," he crooned, his fingers stroking down the nape of her neck to try and calm her. _Anything_ to make her feel better. He didn't want her to faint. "That's a good girl. It's okay."

Pansy deserved worse than a thirty-six inch essay. She couldn't have known what Hermione had been through, nor what had happened, but Pansy deserved to know how much pain she'd put her through by giving her that tea. He should tell her what she'd done.

At least, that's what he wished he could do. But what would be the point? How would it help Hermione? How would it help his own memories of what he'd witnessed?

No one could get Hermione through that, and no one could get them both through this except each other.

He held her while she cried for the next few minutes, ignorant of how tired he'd been when she first came to his dorm room. Eventually, her sobs quieted to catatonia and the occasional sniffle. Even then, he continued to hold her.

"Do you wanna maybe lay down?" he asked, keeping his voice low. He dipped his head down a bit so he could look at her face, which was cast in shadows due to his body blocking the moonlight from the window. "We can get some sleep."

She nodded, her eyes closed.

Draco thought for a moment about the best way to move them both, settling upon hooking one arm beneath her knees. He lifted her, surprised when there was hardly any resistance, and turned to set her down in what was now "her" side.

"Fuck," he muttered, the words escaping his lips.

"Huh?" she said, her voice wrecked from crying so hard for such a long time.

"You're as light as feather, Granger."

She said nothing.

Draco set her down, casting one more glance at her face. Her eyes were open now, half-lidded and puffy. Tears kept falling, rolling slow and sporadic from her eyes to her jaw. She looked swollen and somehow more beautiful to him than he'd ever thought anyone could be.

That disturbed him.

Why would he think her crying made her look pretty?

He went back to his side of the bed and climbed in, pulling the coverlet up over the both of them. Lying down, he had just started to roll to face the window when she surprised him by moving until she was pressed to his side.

"Did you want me to—"

"Yes," she whispered, and then her fingers twisted in his shirt by his abdomen.

Swallowing against his sudden urge to blush, he faced her and slung his arm over her shoulder. He curved it around her back.

"More."

After a moment of hesitation, he slid his other arm between her body and the mattress and gathered her up against him. It felt nice, having her so close, and he imagined it felt nice for her to be embraced.

"Your head's not even on the pillow," he said.

"I don't care." He felt her burrowing closer, her nose brushing his neck.

"All right. Sleep."

She didn't reply, and so he let his eyelids flutter shut. Draco didn't think he'd ever felt more at peace, which was strange given that it was Hermione Granger he was full-on cuddling in his bed.

For a moment, his life flashed before his mind's eyes. A life where he went to sleep in the Manor with Hermione in his arms every night, safe from anything and everyone who could hurt her. The Manor, where he wouldn't be alone.

He'd have to think about that one when he woke up.


	18. Chapter 18

** Apricity – Chapter Sixteen **

" _We're in the clearing again."_

_Draco turned to see Hermione sitting next to him on the hill. She had a gardenia in her hand, plucked fresh from the flowers by her sides. She wore a black dress made of chiffon with thin straps and a tight waist. The skirt flowed out and looked to reach mid-thigh._

_His eyes lingered on her chest, but not her breasts. Her chest bone._

_The ridges were so_ prominent _._

" _How did you change your clothing?" he said. "Last time, you had the same pyjamas on."_

" _It's a dream," she said, her lips curling up into a smile that didn't quite match the sobbing, weeping mess that had fallen asleep in his arms. "I figured we could do anything we wanted—so I imagined myself the way I wanted to look, and then it worked."_

_He tore his gaze away from her chest and let it rove the rest of her torso. Her collarbones were just as sharp, straining against thin skin as though they wanted to escape. Her neck was long and narrow, and her arms were so . . . They looked skeletal._

_She_ wanted _to look like this?_

_Draco looked off to the left, towards the sea beneath a silver sky studded with green stars. Something hurt in his chest as realization began to creep in slow and steady. He didn't want to fit the pieces together. He didn't want to believe that what had killed his mother might be affecting Hermione._

_No._

_It was just a dream._

_Just because she dreamed of looking this way, didn't mean it was reality. He could imagine himself looking however he wanted, too. It was just her imagination._

_He hoped._

" _So, what do you want to do?" she said, sounding excited as she got to her feet._

_Draco followed suit, seeing that he was in the trackies and shirt he'd fallen asleep in. He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, deciding to try what Hermione had and change his clothing. When he opened them again, he was wearing a pair of black denims and a black jumper. She laughed._

" _See? I told you," she said. "It's that easy. Now, we match!"_

 _He lifted one eyebrow. "Matching outfits? You're one of_ those _witches."_

" _Me? Well . . ." She tilted her head to the side, tapping her chin with the gardenia in her hand. "I suppose I could be. I haven't ever really gotten the chance to explore those sorts of things."_

" _What sort? The fluff of teenage relationships?"_

" _And romance." She sniffed the flower, and a distant look crossed her face. "I've only had two wizards—Viktor and Ronald—and while Viktor was decently romantic, I was so young and didn't know what I liked. Ron was—he didn't care. Now, I suppose I'd like to be wooed."_

_Draco sneered at the mention of the Weaselbee. Even in dreams, he hated him. "I'm unsurprised that he was terrible at that. Witches deserve nice things, Granger—remember that."_

" _Hermione," she corrected, "and I haven't forgotten."_

_Instantly, he remembered when he'd given her the cauldron cake. "Hermione."_

" _And if it were up to me," she said, "I think matching outfits would be cute. If I had a wizard and he took me out to a—like, a fancy dinner in London. And if he brought me flowers. I—well, I think I'd like that very much."_

_Draco was fucked._

_He could see himself doing all of that for her, and he hadn't even realized whether he fancied her or not._

" _Well, we're matching right now," he said. "And we can do whatever we want."_

_She lowered the flower and looked up at him with wide eyes. "What?"_

_Draco leaned down and gathered up ten or so gardenias. He arranged them into a makeshift bouquet and handed them to her with a bit of a smirk._

" _Flowers," he said in response to her dumbfounded look. "And I don't know if dinner in a dream is the best idea, so if you could do anything you want right now, what would it be?"_

" _What would_ you _do?"_

_He answered without missing a beat. "Riding on a broom across the sea for kilometers."_

" _It's a no for me." She shook her head. "Absolutely not. Not even in a dream will I ever ride on the back of a broom or anything that flies ever again."_

_He opened his mouth to ask her for details, but thought better of it. He didn't want to bring her mood back down. If this was a dream, he didn't want it to become another nightmare for her. He already had the sounds of her sobs burned into his memory._

" _I would decorate a Christmas tree," she continued. "Specifically the one in our common room, even though we probably won't put gifts under it."_

" _Why am I not surprised?"_

" _I love Christmas," she said, pouting._

" _I know, I know." He held his hands up. "But fine—if that's what you want to do, then that's what we're gonna do."_

_She smiled, then, and it lit up her entire face. With her standing there, waist-length curls loose about her upper body, clad in that dress, and a bouquet of gardenias in her hands?_

_He would have said yes to anything._

" _Okay, close your eyes." She did so, and something lit up inside of Draco at the sight. The fact that she trusted him enough to close her eyes within seconds—it did something unexplainable to him. His fists curled at his sides as he closed his eyes, too. "Think about the common room."_

" _All right," she said._

" _Good. Now, open."_

_They both opened their eyes and just like that, they were in the Head common room. All of her Christmas decorations and lights were on, flickering and twinkling. It was pitch-dark outside the window. The tree in the corner stood devoid of decorations, waiting. At the foot of it was a box full of ornaments that Draco's dreamscape had provided._

_Hermione set the gardenias down on the table. Then, she darted over to the tree with a gasp of delight, falling to her knees beside the box. She began sifting through the ornaments, separating the orbs from the more unique ones on the carpet._

_Draco slipped his hands into his pockets and sauntered over, perching on the arm of the couch._

" _Someone's eager."_

" _I told you—I love Christmas," she said, her smile big and bright. "I was always the one who decorated the tree, and my parents would sit on the couch and watch me. My father would help with the higher branches, of course, so that's what you can do. I'll do the bottom half."_

" _Oh, I'm decorating it with you?" He took his hands out of his pockets and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows._

" _Well, of course, idjit," she said, giving him a look. "Did you think I wanted you to watch me?"_

" _Typically we do this with magic," he said. "Since it's a dream, we could do it with a snap of our fingers."_

" _But there's no fun in that, Draco," she whined, her mouth dipping into a pout. "Come decorate the tree with me!"_

_Draco stared at her, feeling his heart racing faster. That smile was a dream in and of itself. It felt like he hadn't seen it in days. Weeks. Months._

_He hadn't seen it since before the war._

" _All right," he said. "I'll decorate your bloody Christmas tree. Come on, then."_

_They spent the next few minutes in silence, hanging the ornaments on the branches in alternating patterns. Draco found that he rather liked the feeling of placing them, standing back and looking at his handiwork, and rearranging it all to make the colors look more balanced. He'd never gotten to do this at home, as the House Elves had always handled the twenty or so trees they had all over the Manor. Christmas seasons had always been a more public affair for their family, with fundraisers, dinners, and galas._

_He wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a family like Hermione's._

" _I like it," she said. "It's coming along, don't you think?"_

" _Yeah," he said with half of a smile. He placed a gingerbread man ornament on the tree, feeling amused. None of this was real, yet it felt like it was. It was weird. "You know we're going to have to do this in real life, too."_

" _I know, and I've been meaning to do it, but I've just been distracted," she said as she hung a candy cane on a lower branch and admired it. "I put the lights on it with magic, but I wanted to do the rest myself. I haven't had the energy."_

_Draco placed a couple of silver orbs in different spots so they wouldn't look too close together. He glanced down at her. He supposed this wasn't so bad, so it wouldn't be too difficult to do it in the common room in the waking world._

" _I could help you, you know. You don't have to like—like, do it on your own, or anything."_

_She looked up at him from her place on her knees on the floor. She hung a red glittering orb without looking, the twinkling of the lights on the tree flickering across her face._

" _Really?"_

_He shrugged._

" _All right," she said. "Have you ever decorated a tree before?"_

" _Nah," he said, hanging another orb. "We celebrated Christmas, but for us, it wasn't so much about family as it was about presentation. I had to learn how to ballroom dance when I was five years old because my parents hosted so many galas."_

" _At_ five _?" Hermione grabbed an ornament and stood up to hand it to him. She watched him start decorating the highest branches. "That's awfully young."_

" _Yeah, well." Another shrug. "Pureblood customs are a bit antiquated. In the 1700's, we were sometimes wed as early as the age of thirteen. It's ridiculous."_

" _Um, ew."_

" _Yeah."_

_Draco hung some more ornaments._

" _I guess that explains why you and Pansy were a whirlwind on the dancefloor at the Yule Ball," she said. "Viktor was all right, but I had two left feet."_

" _If I learned at five, I guarantee you the Parkinsons had an instructor for Pansy when she was three."_

_Hermione snorted. "While she's an excellent dancer, she's not exactly the best person."_

" _I'll have to agree with you there."_

" _But . . . She's your friend, isn't she?" Hermione knelt down by the box and resumed hanging ornaments on her level of the tree._

_Draco was silent for a long moment as he sifted through his thoughts and feelings. Yes, Pansy was his friend and she always had been. Just like Blaise and Theo were. But the fact that Pansy had caused not only Hermione to relive her horror, but Draco to have to endure it made him feel something bitter towards her. Their friendship was forever tainted by it. He was by no means perfect, given who he'd been and how he'd acted before the war, and he'd made choices that had gotten people killed._

_But that was then, and this was now._

" _There's no excuse for what Pansy did," Draco said, crouching down to sift through the ornament box. There was a pretty gold star with intricate designs etched into the surface. He picked it up, feeling the cool metal against his fingers. "Just because I've done some horrid things doesn't mean I have to surround myself with those sorts of people anymore."_

_Hermione looked down at him, her hands frozen in the process of fluffing a branch. She tilted her head to the side, scrutinizing him._

" _You're right," she said, "and I think that's something I've learned myself this year. I've had to discern whether or not my friendships were true. To ask myself, 'are we friends only because we were forced to be in classrooms and dorms with one another every day for seven years?' It's been difficult, but I've gotten a lot of clarity."_

_Picking up the star, he stood up and placed it on top of the tree._

" _And what are the details of this clarity you've received?" he asked, stepping back to admire the full effect of the ornaments, lights, and the star._

_Hermione came to stand beside him. "I've come to see that just because you call someone a friend, doesn't mean you really know them. Sometimes, the people you think you love can hurt you." She looked up at him and smiled. "And the people you think you don't know can actually turn out to be really wonderful people if you just get to know them."_

_His gaze traversed the planes of her face. Was she talking about him?_

_He wouldn't mind if she was._

" _Yeah?" he murmured._

" _Yeah."_

_They stood and ogled the tree for a while, and Draco found that he felt more at peace than he had in years. The darkness around them, broken by warm twinkling lights and the faint scent of cinnamon made him feel like he was at home. Granted, a home he'd never lived in before since the Manor was much too large to hold scents in its rooms, but a home all the same._

_He had the overwhelming urge to sit down on the couch and watch the tree sparkle until he fell asleep._

" _Sometimes, I wish I could go back and do things differently," Hermione said, her voice as soft as snowfall._

" _So do I," he said, looking down at her again. "Maybe I'd see if I could get my parents to decorate at least one tree by hand with me like this."_

_She was completely focused on the tree and her facial expression looked uncharacteristically blank. It caused him to frown._

" _I'd go all the way back," she whispered, "to the day I first discovered magic, and I'd hide it. I'd refuse to go to school entirely and see what it was like to live in the Muggle world without ever becoming a part of this one."_

_A life without magic wasn't a life at all. It was one of his worst fears. Decorating a tree by hand was one thing—but imagining a life where he was forced to do everything without the help of magic through no choice of his own? It wasn't a life he could fathom._

" _But . . . Then you wouldn't have met your Potter and Weasley," he said, a lock of his messy hair falling into his eyes. "And your other friends. You wouldn't have all your academic achievements, and your Order of Merlin. You wouldn't be the Golden Girl."_

" _No," she said, and he saw her lower her eyes, "I wouldn't. I would just be me, a girl with a love of books. I wouldn't have to do anything except be me."_

" _Hermione," he said, laughing slightly as he touched her elbow and turned her to face him. "You don't have to be anything other than yourself. Who is telling you that you have to be somebody else?"_

_She said nothing, still not looking at him. Frustrated, Draco gripped her chin in a gentle hand and tilted her face upward. When he was satisfied that she was going to look into his eyes, he cupped her face in his hands._

"Who _is telling you to be something you're not?"_

" _You did, for starters," she mumbled. "Harry and Ron always have. The entire school. The wizarding world. They chose a role for me and I've been struggling to fit into the mold ever since. I'm not_ small _enough to . . ." Her brow furrowed, lines appearing in her brow as her hands came up to wrap around his wrists. "That's a hypothetical—I mean, I'm saying there's a mold that the world wants me to fit into, that I simply don't fit. And it's gotten to the point where I'd rather have no magic at all, then keep trying to figure out how to make everyone happy. I'm just so tired."_

_Draco realized that what she was saying was probably one of her darkest secrets. If either Potter or the Weaselbee heard her say that she'd go back to a time where they weren't in her life so she could unmeet them, he didn't think they'd be too happy._

_And he understood that sometimes, the pressures of life made you want things that were unheard of. When he was working on the cupboard, the stress had gotten so bad sometimes that he'd contemplated suicide if only to gain some reprieve. He'd been tired, too._

_But what Hermione had experienced was much worse than anything Draco had._

" _I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. Because they were inside a dream and there was no one watching. No one to hold him accountable except the person the apology was owed to. "There's a lot of things I've done wrong. A lot of wrong choices. And one of them was treating you the way I did. But if there's one person who doesn't expect anything out of you, it's me. You don't have to do or say or_ be _anything other than yourself. Not that I'm on your list of people to impress, but . . . You can at least come to me when you can't handle it anymore and you just need a break."_

_She studied him, and then pulled her face out of his grasp. Keeping hold of his left wrist, she held his forearm between them. He felt her gaze washing over his Dark Mark, lying nestled amongst all of his other tattoos as though he wanted to hide it. Her finger traced the outline of the skull and snake, and he gritted his teeth to hold back the urge to shiver._

" _Sometimes, I forget that I'm not the only one who's hurting," Hermione said softly. "Do you miss her?"_

" _Miss who?"_

_She met his eyes. "Your mother."_

_His heart wrenched and his fingers twitched in her grasp. Of course he did. More than anything. He missed her so badly that it agonized him, and what was worse is he had no one to talk to about it. He hadn't spoken to his father since before that fateful day._

" _Obviously," he muttered. "I'd be a cold man if I didn't, don't you think?"_

" _I know," she said, her fingers trailing down his arm and along his wrist. She turned it so his palm was facing hers. Her fingers twined with his, her skin feeling much warmer in this dream that they did in real life. "And I just want you to know that I'm here, too, if you ever need someone to hold you."_

_Another skip of his heartbeat._

" _Yeah?"_

 _She nodded, scrutinizing the way their hands fit together, and the contrast of his ink-decorated fingers against the back of her palm. "There's no reason why you should have to carry your burdens_ and _mine."_

" _Hmm," he said, humming in response. He couldn't stop looking at her face and the way the lights played off of it. When had she gotten so Salazar-damned beautiful?_

_She smiled, then, and it was everything. "I'm really glad we became friends, Draco. I just wish things could be this easy when we're awake."_

" _They can be," he said, and then he tugged on her hand. Catching her by surprise, she stumbled forward and fell against his chest. Before he could think too hard on it, he wrapped his arms around her in the sort of embrace he wished he could give his mother one last time._

_She lifted her hands, hesitating. "We can hold each other whenever we want?"_

" _Yeah," he said. "Of course."_

" _Just like this?" She slid her arms around his waist and locked them in place._

" _Mh-hm," he said. "Just like this."_

_They watched the tree, watched the lights twinkle on and off and the ornaments sparkle._

" _You've changed, Draco. And it's a really, really good thing."_

* * *

Draco woke, expecting Hermione to be gone.

To his surprise, she was still lying in his bed and they were in the same position they'd fallen asleep in. His arms were wrapped around her, fingers of one hand tangled in her curls. Her face was pressed into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and one of her legs was tucked in-between his. Her hands gripped his shirt.

Lying there in a sleepy haze for a moment, he tried to separate reality from the dreamscape they'd created.

He remembered decorating the tree and embracing her, and then he remembered the two of them going into the kitchenette to bake sugar cookies shaped like bells, stockings, and trees. They'd frosted them and eaten ten each while reminiscing humorous moments from their younger years. It turned out he had as many hilarious stories about Crabbe and Goyle as she had about the Weaselbee and Potter.

Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed that much, nor the last time he'd eaten that much sugar. In the dream, it had felt so vivid and real. The taste of vanilla, the scent of cinnamon.

However, now that he was awake, it all felt like a far-off memory. The reality was the weight of Hermione on his arm and the heat of her body pressed against his. She was something real that he could touch and feel whether his eyes were open or closed.

He liked reality better.

She woke a short time later with a start, her body going rigid. He didn't want her to panic so he loosened his hold on her.

"You snore, you know," he said.

There was a moment before she relaxed into him again, not moving her position. "Thanks for telling me. And what?"

"And what . . . What?"

"What about it?" she snapped, voice groggy. "It's not as if I can control it."

"Feisty in the morning, too, I see," he said, his own voice hoarse. He shifted, relaxing further into the bed. "Relax."

"Did we wake up late? What time is it?"

"I haven't the slightest clue."

He groaned in protest as she extricated herself from his arms and sat up so she could see the clock behind him. Her hair was a disaster, but a beautiful one. She gazed down into his half-shut eyes.

"We're halfway into first period."

"Shame," he said, smirking. It wasn't as though he liked that class, anyway.

"I don't skive off class, Draco," she replied, glowering at him. "I'm _me_."

"Well, now you do."

She scowled and threw the covers aside, splintering his warmth with cold air. With more grumbling, he took the covers and pulled them up to his neck. He watched as she walked around the bed and went to the window, pulling the curtains open.

"You're a bad influence on me," she said, sounding annoyed. "But we're not going to sit around and do nothing. Let's go to the Library."

"The Library?" Begrudgingly, he sat up, his hair in his eyes. "What for?"

"You may be happy accepting something unexplainable for five years, but I am not. I need to know what's going on between us and why we're able to walk in each other's dreams. The fact that we can interact like we did last night and the night before is just . . ." She placed her hand to her temple and drew it away. "It blows my mind. So, hurry up and get dressed."

Draco stifled a laugh as she grabbed a pair of his trousers from the floor and tossed them at him. He caught them right as she pulled his dresser drawers open. In the next few seconds, a fresh pair of pants and a grey jumper were on the bed with him as well.

Shocked that she was just going through his drawers like that, he was slow to react when he saw her inspecting the wooden chest on top of it with curiosity.

"What's inside here?" she asked. "The carvings on the outside are so intricate."

Her fingers unlatched the bronze clasp, and Draco's heart leapt into his chest. He tossed aside the covers and bounded across the room to get to her. Standing behind her, he curved one hand around the front edge of the dresser and the other hand around her wrist to stop her, boxing her in. She looked up at him, her hair brushing against his chest.

"What are you hiding? Some Dark artifact?"

"No," he said. "Do you need to know every little thing about me?"

"It's just a chest, Draco," she quipped. "And I've asked you hardly anything about yourself, so don't act like I'm some nosy witch who's trying to insert herself into your life. You know things about me that no one else does."

"And that's your choice," he said, tightening his hand when she tried to move.

"Not all of it was," she said, holding his gaze with a spark of vehemence in her eyes. "You _know_ that."

Guilt colored him pale as he realized what he'd just said. His words were only half-true. Some things he knew about her because she'd told him—he only knew about Paris because someone had poisoned her tea.

Still.

His father was off-limits.

"Please," he whispered. "Leave this one alone."

". . . All right," she said, and this time when she pulled on her hand, he let her. He moved aside and she moved away from the dresser. Without looking at him again, she left the room.

Draco hurried to dress, glancing over at the chest more than a few times. He hadn't received a letter from his father in a while, which wasn't like him. There was no desire inside of him to read any of them, but something about knowing the letters were coming had given him a strange sense of comfort.

He knew he was being overdramatic about them, too. They were probably mundane play-by-plays of his life in Azkaban—not confessions of his undying apologies for being a horrid father.

What would Lucius think if he knew that Draco had kissed a Muggle-born witch on the neck in waking and the lips in dreaming? What would he think if he knew they were sharing a bed, even if the reasons were innocent in nature?

 _What would he think if I wrote back to him and told him I fancied not just any witch, but_ the _Hermione Granger?_

He gulped.

That would require him to admit he fancied her first.

When his shoes were on and his cologne had been sprayed, he headed out to the common room. Hermione was there, sitting on the arm of the couch like he'd done in the dream. She'd gotten dressed, too—in a pair of black leggings and an oversized blue jumper. She was staring at the undecorated tree in a listless manner, shoulders slumped with what looked like exhaustion.

"Still tired?"

"Huh?" She jumped to her feet, whirling to look at him across the room. "Y-Yeah, a little bit."

He came to a stop behind the couch and glanced at the tree. "Looks like all of our hard work is gone."

"Well, it _was_ in a dream, after all." She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I don't expect anything that happens in our dreams to carry over."

Draco bit his lower lip and rubbed the back of his neck. "Let's decorate it for real this weekend."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up. "You mean—without magic?"

"Yeah."

"I—thank you, Draco. That makes me really happy."

His heart swelled. "Good."

She gave the tree one last wistful grin, and then she headed towards the portrait. Draco followed her out into the corridor. As they passed the Great Hall, he paused.

"Did you wanna go back to the common room and grab some last minute breakfast?" he asked, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

"Me? Oh, no, I—I ate while you were changing."

"Really?" he asked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "That quickly? I was only in my room for five minutes or so. You changed and ate an entire meal?"

"No, I—well, I mean, I had an apple."

He saw her begin fidgeting with her fingernails, and he was reminded suddenly of the way she'd looked in his dream. The way her skin seemed to stretch thinly over her bones. His gaze swept her body, wishing he could see her now and compare. Because either way he looked at it, whether it was what she really looked like or wanted to look like, something felt sinister about it.

She was lying, and he knew it in his bones that she was.

And it was because she was lying and because of his mother's past that he knew there was a right way to go about this and a wrong way. It wasn't his business until it was. And while he didn't know the details of Hermione's issue—if that were in case the problem—he knew that she had a temper.

He had to finesse her and get to the bottom of it.

"After the Library," he said, moving forward again, "let's go down to Hogsmeade for lunch. My treat."

"For what reason?" she asked as they resumed walking toward the Library's extravagant doors. "Early Christmas?"

"Sure, yeah," he said.

"After Charms though, right? We have an exam in two days and the last thing we need to do is miss any review and fail because we wanted Butterbeer."

"Eh, I'm just gonna skive it off. I'll probably miss the rest of the day."

Her jaw dropped. "It's almost holiday! You can't just _wait_ for a break?!"

An idea came to him.

"All right," he said, and then he hop-skipped ahead of her. Walking backwards, he held up his pointer fingers. "If I agree to go to Charms, then you have to let me pick your meal for you at lunch."

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Depends. What are you ordering?"

"It'd be a surprise. Either I skive off Charms, or I pick what you order."

She halted mid-step. "Is this some weird control issue you have?"

"No. Er—maybe." He grinned. "But if we make a deal, it's a deal. Either I skive it off, or I pick."

"But it affects _your_ grades."

"Yeah, and _you_ care about them more than I do."

"What about your career?"

He said nothing, not knowing how to voice aloud to her, let alone anyone his fears about his future.

She let out a sigh. "Fine. All right. We'll go to Charms, and then we can walk to Hogsmeade and eat lunch there."

"And . . ."

"And I'll let you pick my food out." She threw her gaze Heavenward and brushed past him. "Now, come on."

Draco let out a breath. He hoped this worked.

* * *

Hermione had no idea how much power she held.

The fact that Madam Pince simply _let_ them breeze right in, all without asking for a permission slip was pure insanity. The old crone seemed more fascinated by the fact that Draco was trailing behind Hermione, than the fact that they were in the Library during class time.

"Let's start with the Astronomy section," Hermione said. "Look for anything you see that might have to do with dreams or the astral plane. That's the best place to start, and maybe we'll have a good direction after some reading."

"Where'd you get the 'astral plane' from?" he asked as they walked through the haphazard, narrow stacks.

"Have you ever heard of astral projecting? It's different than dreamwalking, but basically it's where when you're asleep, your soul leaves your body and walks the Earth. It can go anywhere, see anything within moments. I'm wondering if dreamwalking may be something in that realm of magic."

"Ah," Draco said. "Although, that wouldn't explain why I was able to do it for five years without you noticing, only to suddenly have _you_ come into _my_ dream and have conversations with me. Amongst other things."

"Exactly," she said, sneaking a glance up at him that she averted the moment his eyes met hers. "That's why I said it was different."

"Well." His lips curved up. " _Excuse me_ , Miss Granger. I'd forgotten that you were the professor."

"When it comes to research," she said, taking a right and entering the beginning of the Astronomy section, "I'm _always_ the professor."

"Confidence is key."

" _Intelligence_ is key."

They began to sift through books, fingers grazing spines on opposite sides of the walkway. Draco looked for subjects that might apply, as well as the two she'd specifically told him to search for. He wasn't sure they were going to find what they were looking for, but he had hope that they could at least figure out a starting point to jump off of.

"Are you saying I'm unintelligent?" he shot back.

"Don't be stupid. You're the most intelligent boy I know." Her tone was a gentle coo.

He gave her a sour look. "You're lying."

" _The funny thing_ ," she said, standing on tip-toe to try and grab a book that was just out of her reach, "is that I'm not. You actually _are_ the most intelligent boy I know. You're second only to me, and that's probably why I hated you so much when we were younger. No one had higher grades than you, save for me. I liked a wide berth, but you gave me about two inches."

"The funny thing—" he mocked, reaching up past her fingertips to pluck the book off of the stack. He leaned down and handed her the book, his mouth near her ear. "—is that for someone who claims to be first in everything, you forgot to bring your wand."

"Shut up," she snapped, looking at the cover of the book— _Understanding the Astral Plane_. "I left it in my bedroom last night and I didn't see a reason to bring it."

Something about her words caused him to stop dead in his tracks. He had his fingers pressed to the spine of one book, reading and rereading the title over and over until he realized he wasn't absorbing anything. The shock reverberated through him, straight to his core. He turned to look down at her, right as she approached his side to show him another book.

"You feel safe enough around me to leave your wand in your room?"

Her cheeks tinged darker, a rose color amongst the bronze of her skin and she cleared her throat. "I guess so. Yes. Do I have reason not to feel that way?"

Draco was awestruck. After weeks of her avoiding him, multiple arguments, and only two nights of dreams, she suddenly felt safe with him? After everything he'd done—and everything he hadn't—she felt _safe_? With _him_?

"How?"

"I don't know." She looked up from the white pages of the book and did a double-take, seeing the serious expression in his eyes. "Draco—I don't _know_ , okay? I just do."

"That's not an answer," he said, feeling a spike of panic inside of his chest. What if he'd accidentally lulled her into a false sense of security? What if she was just blind to what a horrible wizard he actually was? What if she was deluding herself into forgetting every horrible choice he'd made?

"Why is this so important to you?" she asked, her face contorting with irritation. "Is there something about you that you think I shouldn't trust?"

_No._

_Yes._

_Everything._

_Nothing._

Why did he feel so scared?

"I feel safe with you for reasons unknown to me," she said, "and I decided not to question it. There's so few people I feel that way around that when I realized I trusted you, I just accepted it. I don't have the energy to fight it anymore."

He followed her to the next row, where the Astronomy books continued. His words were a jumble inside his mind, each one clamoring to be amongst the ones he chose, but he kept them all locked behind a wall.

"All right," he said.

She pulled another book off of the shelf and in a casual tone, asked, "Does that bother you, having someone like me feel safe with you?"

"Someone like—What do you—" His eyes widened. "What do you mean? Someone who's _Muggle-born_?"

Her reply was to lift one eyebrow up and side-eye him.

"Hermione, I don't give a flying fuck about your blood status," he said, trying to keep his voice down so Madam Pince didn't interrupt the bubble of solitude around them.

Hermione stopped and with a sigh, turned to look up at him. "I know that. Or at least, I _thought_ I did. But you seem so shocked that I would trust you. Are you not presenting yourself as someone trustworthy? Are you pretending to be someone you're not to get something out of me? I wasn't worried, but now I'm—"

He cut her off, feeling more panicked the angrier she sounded. "I'm just . . . Confused. And I'm terrified. I'm not—people don't trust me. _Good_ people don't trust me."

"What reason would you have to be scared?"

He placed his hands on the shelf and hung his head, struggling to force the words out. Then, he slowly met her gaze.

"What if I hurt you?"

The hardness in her face softened, melting like snowflakes on skin. She hugged the two books she'd grabbed close to her chest.

"I don't think you will," she murmured. "So don't say it like it'll happen."

Draco lifted his hand, reaching towards her face. He didn't know how to explain how terrified he was of hurting her after what happened in Paris. He had no words to explain to her how witnessing that experience had irrevocably changed him, and how the couple of nights she'd slept in his bed were the first times he'd slept so soundly since.

How could he describe to her how horrifying it was to hear her cry knowing that she was so utterly alone in her pain for so many months?

Suddenly, her eyes went wide and she gasped. He dropped his hand, anxiety pulsing through his veins, and moved back from her. She reached onto the shelf that had been above his shoulder and pulled down a book.

" _Star Bonds_ ," she said, reading the title aloud. She turned the book over so she could read the back. "It says it's about magical bonds that wizards create to link themselves to stars and influence their lives."

"Like . . . Astrology?"

"Yes," she said, adding the book to her stack. "Sort of, except you're assigning a star to yourself by choice, rather than picking a constellation based upon where the sun was when you were born. Did you find anything?"

"No," he said. "I was too busy arguing with you."

She gave him a deadpan look, and then turned to go towards a study alcove. "Take another look, and then join me over there when you're done."

Draco wandered through the books for a few minutes, grabbing anything that looked appropriate. His mind was whirling.

What the bloody Hell was wrong with him? Why would he _say_ something like that to her? It wasn't attractive or funny or soft or kind to tell her he was terrified of hurting her. If he was so honored by her trust, why would he try to break it immediately after she told him he had it?

In the alcove, Hermione was nose-deep in the book about star bonds, so he didn't say anything to her. He pulled the chair out beside hers at the small table and began to read the book he'd found, one about the astral plane. He tried his best to focus, his eyes glossing over the passages without understanding much of anything.

What was he even doing? Why was he here, sitting and pretending to be friends with her? He was a horrible person. A bad person. He _knew_ what had happened to her, yet he'd still kissed her neck in the corridor. He'd still invited her to his bed. He'd still kissed her in the dream.

Why couldn't he stop _pressuring_ her?

He was rubbish. Absolute tosh. He was no better than the Weaselbee. No better than the man in Paris.

"Oh . . . My . . . Godric."

He heard Hermione's exclamation, but he couldn't seem to focus. It felt like the storm inside of him had come back with a vengeance. Except now, the grey seemed speckled with color, as though someone had dipped a paintbrush in every color of the rainbow and splashed it into the tornado. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

 _What the fuck_?

"Draco, are you all right?"

He looked at her, unable to speak.

"You're eyes are all wonky—why do you look so freaked out?" Her hand reached toward him, towards his face. "Are you—"

His hand snapped up like a bolt of lightning, snatching her wrist out of the air. "You shouldn't touch me. We shouldn't be here, doing this. We shouldn't be near one another."

"What are you talking about?" A fearful glance was cast towards his grip on her. He wondered if she was second-guessing that trust now. "Why are you holding me so tightly?"

"Have you ever stopped to think about it?" he hissed, his heart slamming in his chest as the storm rose higher, nearly in his throat. "Just stop and _think_. It's _me_ we're talking about here. I'm _Draco fucking Malfoy._ I'm the reason why Headmaster Dumbledore is dead. I'm the reason why Snape and Lupin and Lavender Brown and all the people _you_ called friends are _dead_. If I hadn't let them into the castle, then _none_ of this would have happened. If I hadn't made the wrong choice, then—"

"Draco, please!" she cried, and the fear in her eyes had intensified. She tried to pull her hand back again. "You're _hurting_ me!"

Shock hit him with its full force and, as though her skin had caught fire, he let go of her. She scrambled to her feet and away from the table, chest heaving as she looked upon him in bewilderment. Draco felt his stomach churning, the storm still raging inside of him.

"I'm . . . I'm so fucking sorry," he breathed, staring at his trembling hands. "I don't know what just . . . Happened."

"I was trying to tell you," she said, shaking as she pointed at the book. "I found something. But you . . . What's come _over_ you?"

"I don't know. I don't _fucking_ know."

He placed his elbows on the table and hung his head between his hands. A sharp, throbbing pain had settled into his skull on both sides, feeling like metal screws were being twisted deeper and deeper into his brain. It felt like Legilimency. It felt like the Dark Lord, accessing memories that weren't his to access.

Memories.

Inaccessible memories.

_But . . . How?_

_And who?_

"I think it's true. Somehow, we might be bonded. I—I think we're astronomically soulmates. But the thing is . . . I think it's a false bond."

She took a deep breath before continuing.

"I think someone bonded us together."


	19. Chapter 19

**Apricity – Chapter Seventeen**

Draco wondered if she'd gone mental.

She had to have, for any of what she'd just said to make sense. Only someone who was completely _mad_ would say that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were soulmates. Not only was it pseudomagic, but there were no historical ties between the Malfoy lineage and a random Muggle family that had someone magical somewhere back down the line.

He paused his thoughts.

No. He didn't want to subscribe to those ideals anymore. Being a Pureblood didn't mean that he was more special or worthy than anyone else. Hermione was a better person than him in countless ways and he knew that.

And the way she was looking at him—it was beseeching. She needed him to be in her corner and he'd vowed to himself that he would be. After Paris, he wasn't going to do anything else.

"A false bond? What do you _mean_ a false bond? What is a _false bond_?"

"Don't yell at me," she snapped, and then she marched back over. "This passage here states that ' _star bonds can only be created—they aren't found in nature."_ ' She looked at him, eyes wide. "It means that a star bond is not something that occurs at birth, or inherently. A witch or wizard has to cast the spell to link the person _to_ the star."

"How does that even work?" He held two fingers to his right temple, massaging it against the sudden headache. "How does one get linked to a star?"

"It's metaphorical. Well, sort-of. Basically, it's a linking of your magical core to a star to influence your fate. Ergo, to make good or bad things happen to someone. Since it's created by someone casting the spell, the spell's intention determines the outcome."

"I'm not following."

She let out an exasperated sound. "Take Astrology. We're assigned a star sign according to where the sun was when we were born. For me, the sun was in Virgo, therefore _I_ am a Virgo. And you're—"

"June 5th. Gemini."

"Right. So, with our horoscopes, we can determine our fate—whether it be the upcoming day, or using an almanac to predict where our lives might take us."

"The poor man's Divination," Draco murmured, remembering something he'd heard his father say once when he was younger.

"Yes, actually." Hermione tilted her head to the side. "That's very clever, Draco."

He felt heat rising to his cheeks, but he didn't tell her who he'd gotten it from. He figured his father owed him _something_.

"But," she went on, beginning to pace back and forth near the small, snow-laden window, "our star signs are assigned at birth by chance. But if someone were to say, want their daughter to be assigned to the fate of the . . . Oh, I dunno . . . Aries horoscope for the rest of her life, they would create that bond through simulation. A spell or—or a ritual, even. You wouldn't even need that person to be present in order to do it. You might only need something that belongs to them, or represents them."

"Okay," Draco said slowly.

"So a star bond is a spell created to bond a person _to_ a star. But not the actual fate of the star or a constellation, with the burning and the dying—but to bind it to whatever is predicted in its horoscope, if you will. For example, if Virgo's horoscope says that I'm going to have a good day, and someone decides to bind themselves to the stars in Virgo even though they're _not_ a Virgo . . . Then they'd be able to siphon that good energy into their life. Does that make sense?"

"Sort-of."

"I don't think it's that deep," Hermione said, waving a hand about. "Because all that matters is that you understand that star bonds are not naturally-occurring—they're spells that are cast by witches and wizards to achieve an end goal."

"All right."

She sat back down in the chair to read aloud from the book, her leg bouncing as the words tumbled from her lips in a rush. "' _The prime example of this type of magic can be found in pre-Victorian Pureblood marriage bonds. Primarily used between the 12_ _th_ _and 17_ _th_ _centuries, witches and wizards would arrange marriages for their children using star bonding magic. They would bind each baby to their own binary star, and then they would facilitate the awakening of their bond when they came of age. This magic would tie the witch and wizard together until they died.'_ Until they _died_ , Draco. That means two people bonded to two stars, and then connected like a four-point square. The power of those stars, coming together to intertwine their destinies." She stared at him, looking almost terrified. "That's a soulmate bond."

Draco frowned, looking down at the top of the table in thought. He knew more about Pureblood marriage bonds than he probably should, but he hadn't studied them in-depth. He knew that many families had their own types of marriage bonds that they used, and he knew that with the Victorian era and the succession of the witch Queen Victoria to the throne, all bonds were consolidated into one simple binding spell at the age of fifteen.

Perhaps there was something about star bonds that was unorthodox?

"But where are you connecting that to _us_?" He gave her a bewildered look.

" _Let_ me _finish_!" she said, breathless as she continued to read. " _'An individual who has been star bonded to another person may not ever cross paths with that person, but will feel incomplete until such a time as they do. When or if they come into contact, the individuals will experience a series of progressive symptoms intended to encourage the completion of the bond. Symptoms can include but are not limited to: desire to touch the skin of their bondee, a lack of acute emotions, appearance in dreams, a drive towards consummation, and an inexplicable draw to compassion for the bondee that is best described as obsession. Many of these symptoms can be dangerous. For more, see the book . . .'_ And then it lists a book specifically about ancient marriage bonds and what they entail."

"Well, that's convenient."

"Yes." She met his eyes, chewing on her lower lip.

"Granger, we need that fucking book."

"I know."

"How do we get it?"

"I'll ask Madam Pince," she said, closing the book. "She will probably be able to order it."

"So . . . What makes you think we're bonded together? Because I know for certain I've felt all of those things. And the dreamwalking aside, that would mean that you've been feeling it, too. The emotional colorblindness especially."

She lowered her head as though she felt contrite, or he'd caught her breaking wizarding law. "I know."

Draco's heart skipped a beat as he tried to remain calm. It was one thing to discuss the star bonds in theory given that he'd thought he was the only one feeling the storm. It was another thing to accept that it were true. If she felt it, too, then that made it all the more real.

Which was terrifying.

"For—" He cleared his throat, leaning back in the chair and letting his hands rest between his legs. He was trying to appear nonchalant, when in reality, he felt like panicking again. "For how long?"

"I guess . . ." Her mouth twisted to the side. "I guess since the day I found out about Ron. Specifically, when you gave me the cauldron cake. I thought I felt something odd when our fingers brushed, and then after that, I didn't hate you as much."

He couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "You could have fooled me."

"I just have a short temper these days," she muttered. "I didn't know what it meant."

"But the dreams. The first time for you was the night before last, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "And you were able to see me and converse with me. Yet you were in my dreams for years and I had no idea that you were. So, I'm not sure what that means, but I think we'll know more once we get that book."

Draco studied her, hearkening back to the moment in Third Year when she punched him in the face. He remembered feeling the pain in his broken nose, the blood flowing from his nostrils. He remembered staggering and nearly toppling to the ground. And he remembered running.

The first dream hadn't happened until he returned home, but the exhaustion and the emotional colorblindness had started a week or so later. He couldn't remember encountering anyone or anything before that time who could have cast a bonding spell on the two of them, and when he thought back on his First and Second years, there was nothing to indicate that he could have been part of a ritual where this occurred.

The only person left that he could ask was the last person he ever wanted to see again.

"Can you speak with your father?" Hermione asked, as if reading his mind. "Could you perhaps write to him and ask him what he knows? Because this is an old Pureblood custom and if anyone would know more, it would be him."

Shifting with discomfort, he tilted his head back and dragged the fingers of both hands through his hair. He changed the subject. "Wouldn't _you_ need to be present for a bonding spell between the two of us? I don't know about you, but I don't recall the two of us taking part in such magic."

She shook her head, her curls bouncing a bit. "Not necessarily. Think of it in terms of ancient hex magic. If I wanted to cast a generic hex for bad fortune on someone I disliked, then I wouldn't need them present—I would only need something that meant something to them, or something that belonged to them. Whoever bonded us—if that's the case—wouldn't need either of us there at all."

They sat there in silence for a few more moments before Draco's stomach gave a loud growl, reminding them of their next class and planned lunch afterward. Hermione hid a small smile, and Draco suggested they head to Charms. Hermione agreed, and they gathered up the books. She went to speak to Madam Pince about the bonding magic book while Draco put the others away.

When he was alone in the stacks, he let out a deep, heavy breath.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

Soulmates.

* * *

Draco was distracted, but not too distracted to remember their deal.

Madam Rosmerta looked shocked to see the two of them walking into the Three Broomsticks together, her jaw hanging open as she struggled to find words. Hermione didn't seem to notice, as she was too busy glancing around the restaurant. Draco felt nerves acting up in his abdomen. The last time he'd been here, it was with Theo, someone who was also a Slytherin. But here he was, on what looked like a friendly outing with none other than the Girl Who Won the War.

The elder witch led them to a table in the back corner, left them some menus, and then walked away with one more glance in Draco's direction.

"Fuck," he cursed, a little annoyed as he took off his coat. He pushed the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows, revealing his tattooed forearms.

"What?" Hermione asked, tearing her gaze off of the menu. She looked at his arms, her eyes lingering for a few moments. "What's the matter?"

"It's Madam Rosmerta," he said. "Every time I come in here, she looks at me like she thinks I'm going to _Avada_ everyone in the establishment. If she knew anything at all about me, she'd know I was the _worst_ Death Eater in the ranks."

Hermione snorted, and Draco sent her a sharp look. She covered her mouth, her eyes twinkling.

"No, I'm sorry. It's just—That's funny."

"Oh, it's funny, is it?' he snarled. "Which part? The part where I'm a bloody coward? Or the part where—"

"The part where you let everyone think you were this scary Death Eater for the Dark Lord," she said, stifling a giggle. "It's just funny. You're not as scary as you look."

"I _look_ scary?"

"Draco, come off it." Her expression was deadpan. "You're covered almost from head to toe in tattoos. I've told you this before—it's not normal."

"And who are you to tell me what's _normal_? Little Miss Stuffs-Wrappers-in-Couch."

She blanched, the color draining from her face right as Madam Rosmerta floated a couple of Butterbeers in their direction. Yet _another_ wary glance was cast in Draco's direction, this time honing in on his exposed Dark Mark. It felt like her gaze was made of the fires of mistrust and disappointment.

Draco couldn't help it—he spoke up.

"Is it the tattoos, or is it just me?" he asked. "Because you don't have to worry about me burning down the establishment, Madam Rosmerta. I respect you a little more than that."

She blinked and then like lightning, a real, genuine smile spread across her face.

"What can I get for you two?" she asked, her voice like liquid gold as she placed a hand on Hermione's back. "We've got the hamburger you like, Hermione, or perhaps you two would like something a little more hearty? Maybe a stew, or a pot pie?"

Hermione looked as taken aback as Draco felt by her switch in attitude.

"I think we're both going to have a steak," Draco said, remembering their deal. "Mine medium and—Hermione?"

"Um . . . Medium well," she said, giving Rosmerta a small smile.

"Excellent choices," Madam Rosmerta said. "I'll go ask the cook to get them started, and they'll be right out in the next fifteen-twenty minutes. Let me know if you need anything else."

She bustled off, leaving Hermione and Draco in a natural lull in their conversation.

Draco glanced around, seeing more than a few of their classmates entering the Three Broomsticks for lunch as well. For a brief moment, he worried that Theo might show up.

Salazar, Draco hoped he didn't decided he wanted a burger for lunch.

"See?" Hermione eventually said, crossing her arms and giving him a smug grin. "I told you that you'd changed. Even Madam Rosmerta can see it."

"Tch. Took her long enough."

"Well, you've got to be realistic," Hermione said. "You know who you are, and _I_ know who you are now. But for the rest of your life, there's going to be people who only see you for who you used to be. You won't be able to change that."

"I know," he said. _That doesn't make me feel any better, though._

"I'm unsurprised that Pansy sat as far away from my side of the room as possible," Hermione then said, a Devilish smile curling up on her face.

"Perhaps she thought you were going to throw yourself across her desk," Draco shot back, unable to keep himself from smirking, too. He took a drink of his Butterbeer, watching hers go untouched. "You're positively feral."

"I might have, since I didn't get to make the message clear to her yesterday."

"And what, pray, is the message?" he asked, laughing.

"Not to forget who I am. I can't believe she poisoned my tea. I ought to show her what it feels like when someone with an E in Herbology poisons tea."

Draco eyed her, trying not to laugh again. If Hermione was anything, she was dramatic. More so than he'd originally thought. In Charms, he'd chosen to sit beside her that day since he didn't see any reason not to, and the amount of times he'd been in the line of sight of the two witches glaring at one another was uncountable.

"You're not drinking your Butterbeer," he said, lifting his eyebrows.

"You ordered it without asking me, so you only have yourself to blame." She tossed her curls back over her shoulder. "Besides, do you know how many calories are in them?"

Calories.

Hermione was worried about calories.

_Well, shite._

Draco felt his heart sinking. Denial at this point was accepting unintelligence. She may not have the exact issue that his mother had, but the fact that she worried over the caloric content of a damn drink was information enough to let him know her weight meant something to her.

Which was ridiculous. The girl exercised enough for the entire Slytherin Quidditch team. She was the size of a fucking waif.

He had to think of something. He had to think of something to say that wouldn't make anything worse.

"You know you're beautiful as fuck, yeah?"

She stared at him as though he'd just sprouted horns. In the silence, his anxiety got the best of him. Had he gone too far? Was that not something he should have said?

"I mean, you don't have to worry about your weight," he said, swallowing against his nerves. "Calories, sugar—none of that nonsense."

The planes of her face tightened and she averted her eyes. "You say that as if the alternative can't exist at the same time. Like if I _did_ need to—in your opinion, from _your_ perspective—need to worry about my weight, I wouldn't be beautiful."

"Well, I . . . I didn't mean—" _Fuck. What the fuck was wrong with him?_

"It's not like it's either-or. It's not like I can be _either_ beautiful _or_ need to watch my weight. I can be both, and you don't have to apply a negative connotation to my body size." Her eyes were as hard as stone.

Maybe he wasn't as suave with witches as he'd originally thought.

"You're right," he said, voice shaking. "Forgive me."

She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, as though she were cold. She glanced toward the door and Draco couldn't help but wonder if she was regretting coming with him. He wouldn't be surprised if she was.

"I just worry about you," he added, and then he took another sip of his own drink. "But maybe I'm wrong to."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

She scrutinized his face. "Why do you worry about me?"

"I don't . . . I have no idea how to answer that question. I just do. We're friends, aren't we?"

Her lips twisted to the side. "Perhaps it's just the bond."

Yes, there was that little problem. The fact that any feeling he had towards her might be false or fabricated. The fact that someone somewhere in the past had possibly decided it might be a great idea to bond the two of them to binary stars and influence their destinies forever. Everything he felt towards her might only be created by stardust in his veins.

But what he had seen in her memory of Paris . . . Was that not enough for him to care? Was he truly _that_ heartless without the power of a magical bond? What if without the bond, he would have turned out to be an even _worse_ person? What if it had sparked a series of horrific choices that led to him _not_ lowering his wand in the Astronomy Tower?

What if without a hypothetical bond, _he_ would have been the one to kill Dumbledore?

"And what if it _is_ just the bond?" he asked, lowering his voice so people at nearby tables didn't hear their conversation. "What if our friendship is false?"

"Then I wouldn't be surprised," she said, staring at her untouched Butterbeer. "But I've done a lot of reading in my time—" She stopped midsentence when he snorted into his drink. "—and usually marriage bonds can't influence whether or not the emotion is based in reality. They can only influence the gravity with which the emotion is felt. There has to be a feeling there in the first place. That's why potions like Amortentia are regulated by the Ministry. Potions aren't magic—they're perversions and manipulations of it. Amortentia _simulates_ love."

"And you're theorizing a star bond doesn't simulate—it only intensified?"

"We come from the stars, Draco," she said. "It stands to reason that emotions like happiness, sadness, and yes—even love come from the cosmos, too."

He nodded, resting his chin in his hand and elbow on the table. She was right. If all life on Earth came from the depths of space, and emotions were inherent in humanity, then it made sense that even with a star bond, the feelings would be real.

Which would mean however he felt about her, she felt the same.

But the first time Draco had noticed the grey storm, he'd been fourteen years old. At fourteen, he'd thought he hated Hermione.

Unless he hadn't.

"If someone _did_ bond us together, they would have to be powerful," Hermione said, her voice breaking into his thoughts. "Someone like a professor or other adult. Do you think perhaps your _parents_ might have—"

Draco cut her off with a series of coughing, spluttering noises as the Butterbeer nearly went down the wrong side of his throat. Shock resonated throughout his body at the thought of his parents—his Pureblood parents who hated all things Muggle—casting a spell to bond him to a star with the Muggle-born witch that his father had forbid him from fraternizing with at the end of First Year.

"Have you gone mental?" he said. "My parents would have _offed themselves_ before bonding the two of us together. That is the _last_ thing they would have wanted. If I even dared to go to Azkaban and ask my father directly, he'd laugh and ask me if my head was full of _mud."_

She remained silent and as they looked into each other's eyes, Draco could see that she didn't seem to find any part of what he'd just said humorous.

It was just unfortunate that it was true.

His parents would never have performed this sort of spell on him unless the adjoining witch was a Pureblood, too.

Madam Rosmerta walked up, waving her wand to set their plates in front of them. She was all smiles and light, a vast difference in her attitude towards him so far this school year. Draco wasn't sure if it was real, but he wasn't complaining. He was sick of being stared at like he was going to rip up his sleeve and call the Dark Lord back from the grave.

Draco began to cut his steak, and then he took a bite. It was delicious, exactly the way he liked it. He took another bite, glancing across the table at Hermione. Much to his pleasure, she was tucking in with zeal. In fact, she was eating faster than he was.

"You know," he said after swallowing a mouthful, "I'd think you really liked your food if it weren't for that sour expression on your face."

Her upper lip curled. "Yeah, well, I'm suddenly not in the best of moods."

Something in her tone made Draco's head pull back on his shoulders. It was curt and dripping with acid. Had he said something wrong? Or was she just now realizing he wasn't the person she should be spending time with?

They ate the rest of their food in complete silence, the air between them frigid. Draco could feel the gazes of the majority of the establishment's patrons on them, watching them. It made everything worse. At least before, they were laughing and enjoying each other's company. Now, it just looked like a bad date.

Right as Madam Rosmerta brought over the check, Hermione pulled a coin purse out of her coat pocket. She dropped some galleons on the table and then got up.

"Where are you off to?" he asked, both him and Rosmerta looking at her.

"To the loo," she snapped, and then she stormed off.

"Oh, my," Rosmerta said, giving Draco a wide-eyed look. "What'd you say to brass _her_ off?"

Draco hadn't the slightest clue.

Ignoring Hermione's galleons, he paid for both meals and both Butterbeers with his own funds. He knew he should be a bit more careful with his money, given that his father was the only one who could access the vaults and grant him more until he was twenty-one. He was running low, but there was no way on Godric's green Earth that he was speaking to his father unless he absolutely had to.

But he wasn't going to take Hermione to lunch and make her pay.

When she came back, she frowned at her galleons.

"You paid?"

"Of course I did," he said, shrugging back into his coat. "Who do you think I am?"

She didn't reply, her brow still furrowed as she gathered up her galleons and shoved them back into her pocket.

"You ready?" he said.

"Yes," and then she headed for the door.

Draco fell in-step behind her right as she stumbled. He supposed he should have expected it, given that the witch was always staggering and fainting about, but he was too busy glowering at the students that were watching them leave. He knew by now that something was seriously wrong with her. So, when she stumbled forward and nearly pitched face-first into the door of the restaurant, he had to be lightning fast.

She let out a gasp. He saw her flying forward.

Quick as a flash, his arm was around her midriff and his other hand was gripping her elbow, holding her up. His heart pounding at how close she'd come to slamming her face into the wood, he dipped his head down near her ear.

"All right?"

"I'm fine," she said, sounding breathless as she placed her hands on his forearm, beneath her chest. "I just tripped over . . . A loose floorboard, or something."

Just then, the door opened and a group of Fourth Years traipsed in, trailing snow behind them. Draco, with his arm still around her middle, drew them both to the side so the girls could get by.

One of the witches looked up at him, in the process of saying something to the group. Her gaze fell down to meet the much-shorter Hermione's, and then finally settled upon his arm and the way Hermione's hands were gripping it.

 _Oh, shite_ , was all he had time to think before the girl was practically shrieking into the Three Broomsticks.

"Oh, my Godric! Are you two _dating_?!"

Everyone— _everyone_ —turned to ogle them again, as though they'd just transformed into Veelas. Hermione pulled herself out of his grasp faster than he could blink and shoved her way out into the snow. Draco followed after her, shaking his head.

"With any luck, that'll make it back to the Weaselbee by supper," he said as he caught up to her on the sidewalk. They were heading for the town gates.

"Lucky for me, but not for you, hm?" Her tone had returned to its former acidity. "Everyone will think you're playing in the mud."

He slowed to a complete halt, coincidentally right next to the alley that he and Theo had seen Ron and Gregoria in all those weeks ago. She stopped, turning to look at him with an annoyed expression.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Is this about what I said regarding my parents?"

She averted her eyes and shoved her hands into her pockets. The snow was falling around them, but the sky was a light grey that made her skin look uncharacteristic in its paleness. The flakes gathered in the dips and divots of her curls. By the look on her face, he could tell that she was angry.

"So, what if we _are_ bonded?" she asked in a hiss, and then she took a step toward him so she could lower her volume. There was no one on the sidewalk with them, as they kept stepping off to get around them, but there were students everywhere. "What if you happen to be star bonded with a Mudblood? Then what? Do we accept the bond or break it?"

He flinched at the word. He hated hearing it, even though he'd said it himself countless times. The reminder of who he used to be combined with the reminder of the toxicity of his bloodline made him want to be sick.

"Ask yourself that," he said, taking a few steps toward her until they were only a yard away from one another. "The issue doesn't lie with me. Do _you_ want to be bonded with _me_? What will _you_ do? Embrace it or deny it?"

She looked down the alleyway, her expression still troubled.

"I'll find a way to cope until we can discover a way to break it or reverse it. And until then, we need to find a way to put some distance between us. Because with most marriage bonds, sex is what completes the magic. Then, it's forever and I can't imagine a forever with you."

Her words hurt. They hurt like stones to the flesh or a knife to the heart, and he knew why.

Because he fancied her.

He fancied her and he wanted to take care of her and be there for her and do whatever he could to make her happy. And it didn't _feel_ like a star bond or bonding magic of any kind. It felt real. It felt like they'd gone from tearing each other's throats out to caring about one another in a matter of hours. It felt like . . .

It had happened overnight.

He fixed her with an accusatory glare that could have melted the snow in her hair. "You say that like you think I want to fuck you."

She didn't shrink back. In fact, she straightened her shoulders and stood up as tall as she could.

"Forgive me for thinking you're all the same."

 _All the same_.

The same as who?

His memory flashed images in front of him. The Eiffel Tower. A walk made up of bricks. Fingernails scrabbling against them for purchase.

_And she's got every right to think that._

_But that's just not me._

_It can't be._

"We're _not_ all the same," he growled, moving towards her. Her eyes went wide and she moved backward, hitting the corner of the building beside the Three Broomsticks. She moved to her right, into the alley. "And while I understand that it may be difficult for you to see that, it doesn't give you the right to go applying that mentality to me out loud. I'm not like him."

She continued to back away, her feet crunching in the snow. Her expression was vitriolic.

"I have every right to apply whatever mentality I want to any man who looks at me and thinks I in any way, shape, or form belong to him."

"I never said that."

"No, you didn't," she said. "You made it clear that you can think of nothing worse."

He stopped walking, but she wasn't done talking.

"And that storm you feel? The one that's grey mixed with colors you can't fathom? I feel it, too." She tilted her head back and to the side as she looked up into his eyes, searching them for whatever it was she was hoping to find. "If we're feeling the exact—same—thing, then I know _exactly_ what you want. And that's what scares you. The fact that in spite of who I am and in spite of what your parents might think, you still want me."

Her hand snapped out to wrap around the lapel of his pea coat, the suddenness of her movement causing him to jump. She yanked, and he stumbled forward as she moved. Her back hit the wall and his hands slammed against the bricks beside her head to keep himself from crushing her.

"The bond is real, Draco. And it doesn't matter how cowardly you are or aren't. It doesn't matter what your father thinks. It doesn't matter what _you_ think. I feel what you've beenfeeling. I'm in your dreams just like I'm inside of you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Someone bonded us together. _You_ are bonded to a _Mudblood_. So, I know _exactly_ what you want to do to me. It's too bad you're too scared to kiss me."

Draco couldn't remember ever feeling so angry in his entire life, yet so, _so_ alive. Every part of his body felt like it had burst into flames. The storm he'd grown so accustomed to was there, filling him to the brim, but it all seemed to pale in comparison to his thoughts.

Yes.

He _did_ know what he wanted to do to her.

Draco's lips descended upon her own, his mouth covering hers and pulling her into a kiss that drowned like the tides. She gasped into it, maybe from shock or something else, and his tongue delved into her mouth with abandon. He kissed her like he'd never wanted to do anything else, turning his head so he could deepen it into something that stole her breath.

He grabbed both sides of her face to hold it in place as he snogged her, pressing his entire body against hers and pinning her to the wall. He felt like he was trying to tell her with his tongue that he would never hurt her. To whisper with his lips that he _did_ want her, and that that was the problem.

Her felt her hands pushing against his chest, hard. He moved back, their lips coming apart with a loud _smack_ , punctuated by their breathless panting. They stared at each other, silver irises meeting honey-brown, and she looked frightened.

"What's wrong with you?" she said, sounding livid. "What the _bloody Hell_ is wrong with you? Do you know how dangerous that is? If you test the boundaries—"

_Test the boundaries._

That meant there were boundaries to test.

His mind went white. He grabbed her by the chin and surged forward, bending to kiss her lips again. He was neither sweet nor slow, finding that his desire was spurned only by passion and possessive need. Because he _wanted_ to test the boundaries.

They were _his_ to test.

The moment his other hand braced itself against the wall again, something seemed to shift within her. To break apart, ice melting into a sigh that entered his mouth from the cavern of her own. She threw her arms around his neck, hoisting herself up on tip-toe as she kissed him back with double the energy he was giving her. The storm in his body retracted to the pit of his stomach, where it condensed into the solid heaviness of fervor.

Kissing her felt right.

She shoved him back again and he felt her hand lifting. She was going to try and slap him.

_Again._

He snatched her wrist out of the air and gave her a glare that sent a shiver rolling through her body.

"If you slap me again, Hermione, we're gonna have problems."

The fire in her eyes died out in an instant, becoming replaced with the shyness of who she was: a teenage girl snogging a boy in Hogsmeade. Her hand curled into a fist and he felt the muscle in her forearm flex as she did so. She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he held tighter. Her head lowered, chin tucking towards her chest.

He dipped his head down, chasing after her and brushing his nose against hers.

"Because if we start having problems," he breathed, trailing kisses along her jawline that caused her to suck in her breath, "then we can't kiss like this." The tip of his tongue traced the shell of her ear, and she jolted, barely managing to stifle a cry in the lapel of his coat. "And I can't make you feel good."

"Draco," she said, and it was a whimper. Her back arched as he kissed down the side of her neck. "Draco, w-wait, I—"

He found her pulse and laved his tongue against it, the gentleness in direct juxtaposition to the way that he'd devoured her mouth. She buried her face in his coat to hide the sound that left her lips—the sound that made Draco's head spin and all of the screws holding his faculties together come loose.

He turned his head. She turned hers to meet him. Their lips came together again and again, his low murmurs of how soft her skin was and how sweet she sounded crashing against the keening sighs that rose to greet him. In a few moments, it wouldn't matter that it was the middle of the day and this was an alley, he was going to grab her by the back of the thighs and—

_This is an alleyway._

_We're in a fucking alleyway, and I'm trying to . . ._

_Salazar, fuck._

He was in a brick alley, shoving his tongue down her throat, practically forcing her to kiss him when she clearly didn't want to. He wasn't listening to her body's cues. He was making himself into someone who was just as bad as the man in Paris.

How dare he think any more of himself than exactly what he was?

Draco used his hand on the wall above her to push himself away. He tilted his head back, gasping for breath as he fought with his own body. Fought against the raging torrent that swirled in his abdomen. He looked down at her again, moving backward as she began to fret with her hair. Her eyes were wild, bewildered—like she was suffering.

"I'm not scared to kiss you," he said, his voice hoarse from the kiss. "I'm scared I'll hurt you. There's a difference."

When she met his gaze, the look of combined fear and lack of control in her eyes wrenched his heart in his chest.

"You wouldn't be scared unless there was something I should be scared of. Get _away_ from me." She stepped forward, and he moved away from her. "This is exactly why we need to keep our distance. Now that we're both aware of what we're experiencing, I can tell it's only going to get harder to maintain decorum from here. And I'm telling you right now, Draco—I want to maintain it."

She brushed past him, towards the sidewalk.

He scowled, scraping his fingers backward through his hair. "Well, do you want me to at least walk you back to the castle?"

"No," she said over her shoulder. "Go write to your father. I'm going to speak with Minerva."

It was his turn to feel afraid.

He didn't want to write to his father.

The moment she rounded the corner, Draco realized with sinking clarity what she had done in the Three Broomsticks when they were talking about calories and weight. And she'd done it with the smooth grace of the Slytherin she really should have been.

She'd deflected.


	20. Chapter 20

**Apricity – Chapter Eighteen**

Blaise brought him weed on Monday.

Draco was grateful for it, given the stressful circumstances his life had fallen into. He felt like he'd tripped and toppled headfirst into a pit made of bonding magic. It pulled him down deeper with every breath he took. He was tired of being unable to breathe.

He'd rather suffocate with smoke in his lungs.

That weekend, Draco had left the dorm for meals, but for the most part, he lounged on the couch to read and nap all weekend. Hermione left the common room in the morning and didn't return until the late evening, so he assumed she was working on Head duties, starting her holiday coursework, and visiting with friends. She certainly didn't say a word to him when she was in his presence.

Being apart from her wasn't pleasant.

She hadn't come into his dreams, and when he'd fallen asleep, he'd felt like his consciousness tried to go into her mind, but couldn't find a way in. He'd woken several times in a cold sweat, feeling confused that no one was in his arms. Then, he'd felt stupid because she'd only slept in his bed twice.

Had he really thought it was going to become commonplace?

And he'd laid there, staring at the ceiling in the moonlit room, with the ghost of her lips against his own. He felt her absence like a physical wound, a gaping hole in his psyche. When he thought about keeping his distance from her, it felt like he was tearing it wider and shoving his heart into its depths.

This wasn't normal, so thank fucking Salazar Blaise brought the weed when he did.

"I'd say thank you, but you owe me a lot more than this," Draco said, glancing up from his breakfast porridge.

Blaise stood across the table from him, still bundled in his coat, hat, and scarf. In one hand, he had a black suitcase by the handle. The other was empty, him having just tossed the plastic bag onto the table. It had landed in front of Draco's plate.

"Don't remind me," Blaise said, setting the suitcase down. He slid into the bench, unlooping his scarf. "I'm tired of owing people things. But for what it's worth, I do feel poorly."

Draco scoffed. "Uh, well, you should. If it weren't for you helping Pansy's vindictive arse, then none of it would have happened. Granger can spot that shite from a kilometer away."

"I know," Blaise said, unbuttoning his coat. He shrugged out of it, ignorant of the Fifth Year Slytherin next to him who appeared disgruntled by the loose snow. "And that's why I came straight here. She was a _nightmare_ in London this weekend. I have half a mind to ask if I can—"

"If you can smoke with me?" Draco gave him an incredulous look, spluttering a laugh. "Have you gone mental? You're sitting before me without a bruise around your eye by the grace of Salazar, Blaise. That's _my_ weed."

For good measure, he snatched up the bag full of small green nuggets and slipped it into the front pocket of his black hooded jumper. A smirk graced his features, one that was reflected back at him.

"If I didn't adore how wicked you could be, I'd be miffed," Blaise said. He began to plate up a meal. "I suppose it's just as well. I got myself some of my own."

"Of course you did."

They shared a knowing look and then fell into easy conversation for a few minutes.

Blaise and Pansy had gone to Muggle London for the weekend for a nice dinner, some shopping, and a concert. Blaise had gotten another tattoo—this time on his calf—and had convinced Pansy to get a small one on the back of her shoulder. In spite of the good parts of their weekend date, Pansy had been in a sour mood and their bickering had been nonstop.

"I just don't think she realizes what she did," Blaise was saying as he buttered a muffin with a silver knife. "I mean, I don't know exactly what it was you and Granger experienced, but from what you said, it was bad, yeah?"

"Yeah." Draco sipped his coffee. It was black, the way he liked it, and the bitterness was apparent on his tongue. "It was bad."

"All right, then yeah. She doesn't seem to grasp the full effect." Blaise waved a dismissive hand. "I tried to explain it to her, but she can't see reason when she's like this."

"I don't understand any of it," Draco said. "She's going with you, so why would she have any reason to be envious of Granger? Pansy and I were _hardly_ in a relationship."

Blaise started to reply, but then his brow furrowed so hard that it put a twitch to his eyebrows. "What makes you assume she's jealous of Granger because of _you_? You said you didn't fancy her."

Draco averted his eyes. It was starting to get difficult keeping this all in. The dreams, the sleepless nights, the bonding magic. But he didn't want to say anything about that until they'd finished their research and were certain.

"Well, Pansy'll have some idea of what's been going on when she hears the newest rumors." Draco grimaced. "Granger and I may or may not have been spotted snogging in the alley outside the Three Broomsticks."

It was true—everyone knew. They _had_ been seen during their ridiculous argument and ensuing snog session. By the time he went to dinner that same night, the entire school knew. He'd walked into the Great Hall without any idea why a sea of eyes were staring back at him until he sat down at the Slytherin table beside an uncharacteristically quiet Theo.

An uncharacteristically quiet Theo who ate with the speed of lightning and then left without so much as a word.

And when Draco had watched him go with a frown, he'd been stunned to see every Gryffindor Eighth Year student glaring directly at him. His gaze had then slid to Hermione, who was picking at a salad while staring at the tabletop, and it clicked for him.

At Saturday's lunch, he was asked a total of four times by younger Slytherins whether Hermione Granger tasted like dirt, and he had to leave the room before he beat the fuck out of a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.

Blaise said, "How fortunate that you two managed to alert the press _two days_ before the Hogwarts Express takes everyone away for holiday. When does the train leave? Tonight during dinner? Fuck, Draco."

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "It's not as if I planned it!"

"How do you kiss someone without _knowing_ you're gonna kiss them?"

"I dunno! You just do! It just happened."

Blaise stared at him for a long moment before something shifted in his eyes like the changing wind. "What did Weasley say?"

"Nothing. But you can see for yourself what he thinks. Look over there."

The Weaselbee was sitting at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas. No one sat across from them. All three boys were glowering in Draco and Blaise's general direction. The way they were stabbing their food with the tines of their forks was every bit as threatening as the flames of pure rage that burned in their eyes.

"It feels like we're going to have to watch your back for a bit, doesn't it?" Blaise said, turning back around with his eyebrows up. "Because that's . . . Well, that's something."

Draco wasn't the least bit nervous. Finnegan, Thomas, and the Weaselbee were the equivalent of dust mites floating in the air on a sunny day. He wasn't worried about them. They were more frightened of breaking the rules than he was, and the chance that they all attacked him was next to none.

If they came for him, however, he'd handle it.

"If they attack you, I'll come running, mate," Blaise said, flashing him a grin before he took a large bite of his muffin. "Three against one isn't fair odds at all."

Draco returned his smile with a lopsided one of his own and they resumed eating.

"So, what's up with Theo?" Blaise asked around a mouthful. "Are you two on the outs?"

Draco slowed the pace of his own chewing, his frown returning. He was surprised that whatever was happening between the two of them was noticeable to people who weren't aware of it.

"I'm not fucking sure," he said on a rush of exhalated breath. "He's . . . He's just not seeing eye-to-eye with me lately."

"Mm," Blaise said, nodding slowly. He gave Draco a worried look. "D'you think that maybe the war's got to him a little?"

Draco's head pulled back. The thought had never crossed his mind. Theo fought on the winning side, yes, but he'd surely experienced his own traumas and losses.

But it was difficult for Draco to see past the things that had happened to him. Taking the Mark, having a madman walking the halls of the Manor when his dreams were full of a Muggle-born witch, watching innocent Muggles die, watching his professors die, watching his _friends_ die . . . The list went on.

It was difficult for Draco to understand why if he could overlook all of that—if he could set it aside to maintain a friendship with Theo—then why couldn't Theo accept the fact that there may or may not be something going on between him and Hermione?

Draco's throat went dry, the edges rubbing together like sandpaper.

What if Theo already kissed her before Draco did?

"Well," Blaise said, "you know he said something to me, right?"

Draco's heart fluttered in his chest, nearly to a stop. His gaze snapped to Blaise's, icy and alert. "What?"

"Yeah. It was last week. Er, no—maybe it was the week before?" He shook his head out. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter when it was. Or maybe it does. Okay, basically, I was in the Library and I saw Theo and Granger studying together. I was in there for a good twenty minutes looking for something for an essay, and it looked like they'd been in there a while and weren't leaving. So, naturally I went to sit with them for a spell and talk stories. They seemed like they got along quite well, which didn't seem so shocking to me given that they've been friends all along. And the war and everything. But there was something about the way he looked at her that got me thinking."

As Blaise spoke, Draco found that a well of dark emotion that he hadn't experienced before was starting to grow. Well, he'd experienced it multiple times over the course of the year, but it wasn't anything he'd felt envelop him quite like it was doing now. It was like a cavern of molten lava inside of him, and it was starting to boil. Fire was licking its way up to his eyes, which he knew blazed like twin infernos.

Blaise continued, "Well, she got up to get a different book—Salazar, this was . . . I'm fairly certain this was the last week of November, now that I think about it. Because they were working on an essay for Care of Magical Creatures, and when I asked them about it, she launched into a tirade against American Thanksgiving. Horrific holiday, by the way. Did you know . . . Never mind."

Draco set his fork down as though it were going to explode if he moved too fast. In a calm, quiet voice, he said, "What happened after she got up and left?"

"Oh, right. She was gone for a good two minutes or so, and I asked Theo outright. I said, ' _Theo, what the bloody Hell is going on with you two? Because it looks like you fancy her._ ' You know what I mean? I mean, the way he was looking at her, and he had his hand on the back of her chair. He kept moving her hair out of her face, I mean . . . I was starting to get confused, you know what I—"

" _Blaise,_ " Draco growled, one anxious hand carding through his hair and tangling there. He sliced his other hand in the air in a small, curt motion. " _Out with it."_

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I get carried away. Skipping ahead, I asked Theo if they were seeing one another. He said they weren't, but that he's interested in her and that she's a lot different than what you made her out to be when we were younger. And when I asked him if he was going to make a move, he said he already had. So, I asked him if he'd snogged her, or something, and he said not yet. But he said that she trusts him more than anyone else, and that he's the only person that she's told things to that she's never even told Weasley and Potter."

Not yet.

_Not yet?_

That meant that not only had Draco been right in his suspicion that Theo fancied her, but he'd also been right to feel uncomfortable with the idea. " _Not yet"_ implied that Theo had intent to snog her. He _wanted_ to kiss her. He had a _plan_ to kiss her.

And he had every intention of carrying it out.

In Blaise's eyes, recognition dawned like a slow sunrise. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"Judging by the way you're grinding your teeth and trying to set a fire with your eyes . . . I'd say you're jealous."

"No, I'm not." Draco bristled. "Just tell me what—"

"Yes, you are. You're jealous." Blaise's grin was wide.

" _No_ , I—"

"And that's _okay_." Blaise held his gaze. "It's _okay_. Don't give a fuck what anyone else says—it's _okay_. Better to focus on the fact that someone wants her, too, than to focus on keeping yourself and everyone else in a false state of denial."

The fire inside of Draco flared, nearly exploding.

_Someone else wants her._

Someone better. Someone safer, who didn't make all the wrong choices. Someone who had a plan to win her over because they knew what they wanted and they were gonna stick to it. Someone who could offer her stability, safety, and the confidence to know he was going to go after what he wanted.

Theo and Hermione, holding hands in the halls. Theo and Hermione, curling up beside a warm fire. Theo taking Hermione to the Three Broomsticks. Theo pushing Hermione into an alcove to snog her, to kiss her on the spot beneath her ear that made her cry out. Theo tearing Hermione's clothes off and sinking into her—

 _No. We're bonded. The bond is real because I can_ feel _it._

That wasn't right because—

_Mine._

It didn't make sense because—

_Mine._

That couldn't work _because_ —

Hermione was his.

"Mate?" Blaise's voice broke into his turbulent, scorching-hot thoughts. "All right, then?"

"Did he say what the secret was? Whatever it is that she couldn't tell Potter and the Weasel?"

Blaise blinked, taken aback by his sudden vehemence. "No, he didn't. He only said it was something no one else knew."

"Well, before the end of the day," Draco bit out through clenched teeth, glaring at Hermione's distant face, "someone else is going to know it, too."

"Who?" Blaise said.

_Her fucking wizard._

"Me."

* * *

"I got the book."

Hermione took a step to the left, out of the way of a group of Sixth Years bustling back from Hogsmeade. She was in the entryway of the castle, just beyond the courtyard, wearing naught but leggings and an oversized cream jumper. It looked like she'd been waiting a while.

Draco, who had just gotten back from a casual stroll to Honeydukes to buy a single chocolate frog, loomed over her. He'd skipped lunch to smoke some the weed in the dorm, and then went to Hogsmeade. It had begun to snow on the walk back, so his face felt numb in several places and the hand of his that wasn't holding the Honeydukes bag was shoved as deep into his coat pocket as it could go.

He was also high as fuck.

"What happened to ' _hello'_?" he drawled. " _'How are you_?' What happened to that?"

She rolled her eyes. "I got the book, Draco!"

"What?" he said, stifling a laugh. "You might as well tell me you found the _one_ loose hair from quadrant four on your head that you'd been looking for, Granger. This is _you_ we're talking about."

She gaped at him for a moment. "No, I—Don't be so vile! I meant the book we were looking for. About ancient marriage bonds. Madam Pince ordered it for me because the Hogwarts library didn't have it in stock. She says she's got it now, so I'm going to go pick it up."

"What about McGonagall? You said you were going to talk to her."

"Oh, I . . . I ended up not saying anything to her."

"Why?"

She looked away. "If she thought we might have bonding magic cast on us, she would separate us. One of us would have to leave the dorm. I didn't . . . I don't want that."

"All right," he said, tone nonchalant as he forced away mental images of himself with his hands all over her. "Let's go."

". . . Go?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I was just going to go pick it up and suggest we meet in the common room."

"Nah, I'll come with you," he said, walking forward until he was beside her.

She hesitated for a moment, and then they set off together. It wasn't far and he knew they were going to have to pass the entrance to the Great Hall, but there was something inside of him that was telling him he needed to be near her. He would keep his distance as much as he could, but there couldn't be any harm in friendly gestures, could there?

Bonus points if Theo happened to be in the Great Hall for dinner tonight and saw them walk past.

He slung his arm around her neck, the nearly twelve-inch difference in their heights exactly perfect for it to look careless yet intentional.

"Draco," she said, sounding angry. "What are you on about?"

"Nothing," he said, glancing into the Great Hall. It was full to the brim with students waiting for the Hogwarts Express to pull in and take them away from Scotland for holiday. When it did, he knew they would start filing out the doors.

He was taller than most everyone, but he couldn't discern where anyone was. He hoped Theo saw and if he didn't, oh well. Draco would keep this memory for himself.

Hermione scowled and reached up to shove his arm off of her. He flexed his muscles a bit, keeping her from being able to do so.

"I told you _distance_ ," she hissed. "This doesn't look very friendly, and I _know_ you know the entire bloody school _saw_ us in the alley. Don't act like you don't."

"What, your friends don't put their arms around you?" Draco smirked as he looked down at her through his lashes.

"No," she said, tone icy. "Well . . . They do. But none of them are potentially bonded with me to ancient stars, Draco. None of them cause a storm of raging _desire_ for consummation."

He pulled her closer and, as they rounded the corner, he leaned down to whisper into her ear.

"You're telling me my arm around you causes you to want me? Is that what you're saying?"

A shiver ran through her body, one that Draco felt against his side. She spun out of his hold, moving away from him.

"I'm fairly certain we _are_ bonded. It's not even a potential. And just because you can self-flagellate for five years doesn't mean _I_ can. I want to figure out what's going on."

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but she was already walking into the Library. He sighed and dropped his head back in frustration. This was a nightmare.

What if she wanted to figure out how to undo the bond simply because she wanted to be with Theo?

Another thought came to mind. One that sobered him.

If they _were_ bonded, then neither of them had consented. And if it was somehow _his_ fault that they were linked, then he really was no better than the man in Paris.

Was he?

If he wasn't so fucking high, he'd probably stand and contemplate that for a while.

When he entered the Library, he saw Madam Pince walking around the front desk to personally hand the book to Hermione. The two women were smiling, talking in amiable tones, and Draco lingered back. He didn't have the energy to deal with seeing the light of good nature leaving the librarian's eyes. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop with Madam Rosmerta's sudden change in personality.

Hermione thanked Madam Pince and then headed down through the stacks. Draco followed her, carefully avoiding the front desk and weaving his way through other shelves to cut off Hermione's path. When he reached her, she had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm.

"You terrified me!" she whispered, smacking him on the arm with the book.

"My bad," he said with a lazy grin. "Where are you going?"

"To an alcove. I don't think anyone else is gonna come in here tonight, but just in case. I don't want anyone overhearing this. It's a wonder no one told the _Prophet_ or Rita Skeeter about our kiss in Hogsmeade."

He followed after her until they found an alcove that was secluded enough. This one had no window, but it had a table with two chairs and a floor lamp. There was an empty portrait on the stone wall.

Draco entered first, followed by Hermione. When she was in, she pulled out her wand and cast a series of silencing and Disillusionment spells. He quirked an eyebrow at her, fighting back the urge to laugh.

"It's just to be safe," she said. "Just in case anyone walks by or draws near while we're talking."

"No wonder you survived so long Seventh Year," he muttered. "Potter and Weaselbee would be dead without you."

He saw a hint of red staining her cheeks as she took a seat and set the book down. "It pays to be careful."

Draco pulled his coat off and tossed it onto a conjured coat rack in the corner of the alcove. Then, he tugged the hood on his jumper up to cover the back of his head, pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and sat down in the chair beside hers.

"What're you looking at, Granger?" he said, eyes half-shut. His head swam with a pleasant buzzing.

"You're wearing a _hoodie_ ," she said with a perturbed expression. "It's weird to see."

"A hooded jumper? It's not that weird."

"Yes, it is. It's so Muggle."

"Granger. I'm covered in tattoos done by a Muggle tattoo artist. D'you think I care what is and isn't Muggle any longer?"

She didn't answer him, and he was reminded about their misunderstanding in the Three Broomsticks. His heart stuttered with a small measure of sadness. He needed to make that right.

"Let's just get started," Hermione said, cracking open the book. She scanned the Table of Contents. "Here we go—star bonds."

Draco sat in silence, sliding down so far in his seat that his mother would have smacked the back of his head for poor posture. Legs outstretched, hood on, tattooed arms crossed—he knew he looked like the antithesis of a Pureblood wizard. He couldn't help but feel a laugh spinning in his chest.

What would his mother say if she could see him now?

"Okay, I think . . ." Hermione said, and then she stopped herself. She held up one finger, eyes still scanning the pages. "I think I've got the gist of the section. I'm gonna read it more in-depth and then I'll let you read it this week, but from what I see here, there's not actually any such thing as a 'soulmate' bond. It's a euphemism."

"All right." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and cracking his right-hand knuckles absentmindedly with his left hand. Her scent was faint, but he was so close to her that he could smell her perfume. "So, then what is it really called?"

"Just a binary star bond," she said, turning the page. "And it's done via a ritual that usually involves blood, the moon, and at least one bondee. So, one person has to be present. The moon has to be full for it to work, and the binary stars have to be visible. And then there's more about how the bond presents—sort of, specifics and whatnot—but Draco . . . No one cast this sort of spell on me. I know that for a fact."

They exchanged glances. It was clear that neither had any idea when this bond could have taken place.

But the last time they were in the Library, Draco had had that outburst. The one that felt like something inside of his head that was trying to get out. The one that felt like Legilimency.

"What if," he murmured, gazing down at the book, "someone performed the ritual with _me_ , and then _obliviate_ d me?"

"It's feasible," she said, pushing her curls behind her ears with one hand so the book didn't fall shut. "Who would have done such a thing?"

"I have no idea," he said. "But why don't we worry about it later. You said there's specifics?"

"Yes," she said, refocusing on the book. "The section is rather large—it's about twenty pages long. Like I said, we'll each need to read it. But . . ." She turned a few more pages, skimming the passages. "Ah! Right here, this section talks about how exactly the bond manifests once initiated. So, remember how I said that in the past, the parents of two families would bond their children together as part of arranged marriages?"

He nodded, giving her a slow blink. Listening to her talk while high was a feat in and of itself. She was so pretty, he just kept staring at her nose.

It was the cutest nose he'd ever seen.

"Okay, well the book we found last time also said that the bond had to be initiated, to awaken, or whatever it said." She waved her hand. "It says here in _this_ book that after the bonding ritual is performed, the bond can be initiated immediately. It looks like parents used the bond when they were younger, but then initiated it in their own ways later."

"How's a bond initiated?"

"It says through the touching of skin. Back then, likely a simple holding of hands."

Draco tried to wade through his hazy thoughts, massaging his temples with his forefingers. "But I started showing symptoms in Third Year. You started showing symptoms a month ago, when I gave you the cake."

Hermione sighed. "We'll know when we read more in-depth, I think. In this particular section, it only says when the bond is initiated, there are three levels to the magic that push the bondees together. These aren't the official names of those levels, but it seems like they're named by the author of the book. I figured for right now, we can focus on that."

"Levels?" His brows twitched upward. He was following along, but barely.

Circe, she had the longest, most slender neck. He hadn't left bruises on it yet. Perhaps he should, if she ever let him kiss her again.

What would Theo think of that?

"First one, they write that it's called ' _The Awakening_. _The bonding magic awakens the desire for completion in each bondee. The bondee will feel incomplete, restless, and sickly until they can activate the next level.'_ So—"

"I get it, I get it," Draco muttered. "Something happens to make us realize we're missing something. Keep reading."

He saw the pulse in her throat jump. "Er—right. Okay, so the second one . . . ' _The Draw. This is what occurs when the bondees have both metaphorically accepted the bond. Both have fully awakened and will now be inexplicably drawn toward one another. During this time, the symptoms will increase, new symptoms may arise, and the feeling of incompleteness will intensify.'_ Does it feel like that for you?"

"For the most part, yes."

"For the most part?"

Draco rested his temple against his fist and shrugged. He was so high he was floating in that limbic space between tired and way too energetic. "It feels a little different lately, but that's been recent. I'd say this year was when I moved away from whatever 'level one' feelings would be like. It was fainter, and then it wasn't. And now, it's intense."

She frowned and turned back to the book. "The third level is called the Consummation, and I think that's pretty self-explanatory. It says the symptoms increase and intensify to unavoidable levels. ' _The end goal is for the bond to be completed—or, consummated. Once the bond is consummated, it is indestructible. The bondees' destinies will be intertwined for the rest of their lives. Nothing short of the deaths of both stars they're bonded to will destroy the bond. Nothing short of that, or the death of one bondee.'"_ Her voice trailed off into a soft whisper. "' _If one bondee passes away, so too will the other. The magic is as eternal as flame."_

It would burn until there was nothing left to fuel it.

Silence stretched between them like worn, thin linen.

Draco wasn't stupid, and he wasn't too out of his mind to understand what was going on. They were bonded. They had to be—the symptoms were too spot on. Dreamwalking alone was proof.

But eternity was an awfully long time.

"What do you feel?" Draco asked, scratching his head before returning to rest his temple against his fist again. "In regard to all of this."

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, propping her chin in her hand while she thought. The more time passed, the more her facial expression changed. She grew less relaxed, more fidgety. She worried her lip between her teeth more, and she shifted in her seat.

"Come on, Granger," he said with a sigh. "We have to be as frank as possible. Otherwise, we're not gonna be able to figure this out."

"Third level," she mumbled, her words as quick as flitting sparrows. "For me."

Third level.

That meant that she . . . That she wanted to . . .

Conflicted emotions arose within him. Part of him wanted to reach for her immediately. Another part—the part that was dripping with shame—didn't want to trap her in any alleyways ever again.

Because he felt the same as her.

"Okay," Draco said, moving to rest his cheek against his fist instead. "So, if it took me five years to get to this point and it took you less than a month to jump through to the third level . . . What's different between us, and what's the same about our situations?"

"That's what we have to figure out," she said, and she looked worried.

He laughed a little. "Don't look so terrified. I know it's a nightmare, but I'm not the worst person you could be bonded to. It could be McLaggen."

She wrinkled her nose and then lowered her head. Her hands rested in her lap, where he saw her toying with her fingernails.

"I'm concerned," she said. "We're closer to answers, but no closer to figuring out how to reverse it. And sometimes, it's overwhelming."

"Tch." Draco knew all about that. The grey storm had become his only constant, all through the war.

And it was painful.

"But I . . . I don't know if _you_ felt this way, but when we kissed, I think I—I think I felt a bit better. At least, for a little while." She turned her head to look at him, but he didn't move. "Did you feel the same?"

Her words sunk into the ink of his subconscious, jolting him forward through the weed haze. He laughed, incredulous and confused.

"Wait . . . What? Like, _what_?"

Her mouth tilted down at the corners. "I felt like the storm became easier to bear after we kissed. The reprieve didn't last for long, but it helped me through until Sunday."

He rubbed his right eye with the heel of his palm, still laughing. It was absurd. It sounded like she was trying to lead the conversation down a dangerous path. One he hadn't expected, but had no qualms against.

"What's wrong with you?" she said.

"What?" He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. "Nothing."

"Yes, there is. There's something wrong with you."

"There's nothing." He breathed a laugh. "Fuck, you're perceptive."

She narrowed her eyes, studying him like a puzzle. Her gaze flitted about his face, moving the pieces around until the picture was clear.

"Draco, are you _high_?"

He didn't know why, but he felt his stomach flopping with a sudden burst of nerves. It wasn't likely that she'd report him to McGonagall, but there was always the risk with Hermione Granger. Little swot would have run straight to the Headmaster if they were younger.

"Yes, you are," she said, and then she gestured to her throat. "Your voice is . . . It's different. It's more rough and scratchy. Hoarser than normal." She gave him a searing glare and hissed, "What is it? What did you take? Did you smoke it or inject it?"

"What the fuck?" he said through a burst of laughter that rolled through his belly. "What the _fuck_ , Granger?!"

"Stop making fun of me!" She punched him in the upper arm, causing him to clutch his bicep and laugh harder. "I need to make sure you're okay!"

"Salazar, fuck!" He shook his head, unable to stop laughing. "No, no—shh. It's not a big deal!"

" _What did you take_?" she shrieked, apparently remembering that she'd cast silencing spells and could be as loud as she wanted to.

"It's just weed!" he cried, laughter attacking him like a full-frontal war assault. He held up his hands, reaching for her jumper. "No, seriously—it's _just_ weed. I smoked before I left for Hogsmeade."

The color of her rage faded from her face, leaving suspicion in its wake. "Just . . . Marijuana?"

"Yes. Now, quit acting like a mother hen and sit the fuck down. Fuck." He tugged on the hem of her jumper and she stumbled, collapsing back into her seat. "And stop pouting."

"I didn't know you smoked weed," she muttered. "It's not exactly legal."

"For Muggles, in some places."

"You aren't allowed to take any substances at Hogwarts—even Muggle ones," she quipped. "We're not even supposed to drink alcoholic Butterbeers on castle grounds."

"Yeah, and since when are the words 'not' and 'allowed' ever in the same sentence for me? Whose vocabulary do you think I live by?"

"Clearly, your own," she muttered, looking down at the marriage bond book again. "You act like a child."

"No, I don't," he said, tsking. "I'm eighteen. I act eighteen."

"Yes, a teenage boy. A child."

"That makes you a child, too. You're eighteen."

"I'm almost nine months older than you, Draco."

"Still eighteen, though."

"Stop snipping at me."

"No."

"I mean it!" Her head whipped in his direction with a glare that would have unsettled anyone who wasn't him.

Draco merely smirked and kept looking at her from beneath eyes that were almost completely closed. "No."

"Ugh, you're impossible." She glared at him. "I was _trying_ to tell you that I think keeping our distance might not be the best idea. I mean, for the most part we should, but I think our kiss in Hogsmeade tricked the bond for a short time."

_Oh, abso-fucking-lutely._

"So, what?" he said, voice as rough as gravel. "You wanna snog every other day to keep it calm?"

"Yes." Her tone was matter-of-fact, her gaze glued to the book. "I think for the purposes of the magic and keeping it from being quite so unbearable, we should. Not right now, but maybe tonight."

"So clinical." His lips spread into a cheeky grin. "Should I schedule time with you?"

" _No_. It doesn't have to be so . . . _Dramatic_." She gave him a once-over. "That's _your_ forte. I'd rather it be natural, as long as you remember it serves a purpose. Don't just be leaning over and snogging me in the Great Hall."

"Always have to control everything, don't you?" he purred. "Maybe let me handle this one, yeah?"

"Fine," she whispered, eyebrows raised in irritation. She turned a page over.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Now, leave me be."

She scowled and said nothing more, returning to her reading. He watched her for a minute, wondering to himself what exactly she thought about all this bonding shite. She didn't _want_ to be bonded to him, that much was certain, but he wondered if that was simply because it was a marriage bond.

What if she fancied him outside of the bond?

What if she fancied _Theo_?

His mood darkened for a moment and something stirred within him. Some dark and viscous emotion that felt like it was searing his skin from the inside out. Something simultaneously playful and possessive. Like a werewolf.

He placed his temple against his fist again. A slow smirk spread across his face as his gaze danced all over her face.

She'd said _tonight_.

She hadn't said _when_ tonight.

"Granger."

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"You pay attention to my _voice_?"

He saw her shoulders jump as though he'd hexed her. She turned a page in the book rather quick, nearly tearing it. He saw her cheeks reddening again, but the expression on her face was one of indifference. She didn't say anything.

But her hands trembled.

That dark, possessive thing inside of him curled and uncurled, reaching for her. Calling to her. It twisted low in his abdomen, alive and dying all at once.

Yeah, he wasn't waiting.

Draco reached out with his free hand and slid it behind her back, his fingers tickling her spine. She went stiff as he grabbed her right hip and dragged her to the left edge of her chair. The side of her left leg pressed against the side of his right. If he were to move, she might topple over.

"What're you—"

"Tell me," he drawled, his hand sliding up to her waist. He felt the dip of it through the thick cable knit of her jumper. "You like my voice? Is that it?"

She turned her head to look up at him, and she was so close he could see the flecks of hazel smattered amongst the chocolate of her irises. She started to speak, but the words seemed to be choked off by a small laugh. A laugh of nervousness, or incredulity. Of trepidation.

The predator in Draco devoured it.

"When do you like it best?" he murmured, his thumb twitching, pressing into her back. "When I'm here, talking to you like this?"

She averted her eyes and in the golden light of the lamp, he could see her flush mingling with the shadows the light cast across her face. Her voice was trapped in her throat behind a cage that he wanted to unlock.

He liked her voice, too.

Draco's hand smoothed down again, down to her hip. He pulled—fought the urge to yank—and she gasped. She lifted from the chair with ease, falling against him with her hands flat against his chest. Her cloudlike curls filled the lower half of his face, soft as satin as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo. Something floral, he noted. She shifted, perhaps to try and get more comfortable, what with her sitting astride his lap the way she was. It brought her ear right to his mouth, which tipped up into a half of a smirk.

"Or do you like it best when I'm whispering sweet things into your ear?"

He ended the sentence with a nip of his teeth to her earlobe. Her back arched and a shudder rolled through her body like an ocean wave. Her finger wrapped around the right drawstring of his hooded jumper, twisting it around and around like it felt good. Like the repetitive motions distracted her or kept her grounded.

Draco lifted his right hand and used it to brush her hair back. He swept the curls behind her ear little-by-little, until he had a perfect view of her ear, side profile, and the left side of her throat. The pads of his fingers brushed along the backside of her earlobe, a barely-there touch, and he saw her eyelids flutter. Her head tilted ever-so-slightly to the right, like she was trying to encourage him without saying it.

Like she was too scared to ruin the moment, lest she panic and change her mind.

"Maybe it's not _how_ I say it," he said, his gaze swallowing the sight of her pounding pulse leaping towards him. His fingers delved deep into her curls and curled tight enough to make his desire known. Tight enough for her to know how he felt. "Maybe it's _what_ I say."

He leaned forward, his lips moving slow and sure to meet the sharp line of her jaw. As he began to kiss down to that fluttering pulse point, his left hand found its way to her outer thigh, pulling her closer.

By the time his tongue was darting out to lap at her trembling skin, she was limp in his arms and sighing. Her chest heaved. Her fingers were clenched around both drawstrings. Her thighs were pressing against one another like disrupted parts of the Earth's surface.

That dark, possessive thing inside of him clenched and forced a gasp of his own from his throat. It intensified his kiss, turning it from gentle to sensual, tentative to scorching. His teeth scraped, biting as though he wanted to taste her blood, and his tongue swept over the indentations in her skin to soothe the sting.

She let out a soft, strangled cry.

Draco felt whatever walls were holding him upright come crashing down at the erotic noise. His mind went as dark as the pit of his stomach and he gripped her curls as tight as he could without hurting her. He kissed his way back up to her ear, his other hand cupping the untouched side of her throat.

"Is that it?" he growled into her ear, causing her to lean closer to him and her shoulder to lift as though it tickled. "You like the things I say to you? You like it when I tell you how soft you are, how sweet you sound?"

" _Draco_ ," she gasped, her head falling back. She sounded dazed. Shocked. Like what he was saying was every bit as scandalous as it was. Like she wanted to hear more of it. "I—it's—too much."

 _Fuck_.

He gave her earlobe a lewd, targeted lick and she moaned so loud that he almost forgot she'd cast _muffliato_ when they entered the alcove.

Draco's mind reeled with how high the heat of his body had risen. All of the blood in his veins was flowing South, hurtling to where he could feel her bottom nestled in his lap. He kissed every bit of skin on her throat that he could get to and then his lips brushed hers. They shared each other's breath as he held her head exactly where he wanted it.

Her eyes were as bright as stars.

"How would you like it if I told you that you were mine?" he breathed hoarsely, searching her eyes. "Huh? How would you like it if I told you that's what this bond means? That you're mine to kiss, to hold, to touch, to _fuck_."

Something broke in her eyes, something that made his heart wrench into a tiny knot in his chest. It coiled so tight that it hurt him. Behind those broken pieces, he saw her imagining it. Tasting it. Thinking of what it would be like to give in and accept the bond.

"Would you hurt me?" she whispered, her voice trembling the way it always did before she cried. "Would you hurt me, like he did?"

"Fuck." The expletive escaped him. "No, Hermione. Never."

He didn't want to think about it, but he knew that's all she got to do, was think about it. It was in her dreams and in her nightmares and in her thoughts. That pain was woven amongst every part of her life. There was no reprieve from it.

And then he saw it.

The last piece.

It disintegrated.

She wrapped one arm around his neck, placed the other on his cheek, and slanted her lips over his. She kissed him with fervent need, her lips moving against his with desperation that he knew mirrored his own. Her hips ground downward as she pulled her knees up, as though she were trying to make herself as small as possible on his lap.

All he needed to do was grab her thighs and lift her, turn her and pull her close. Their hips would slot together, a perfect fit. Because that's what the storm had been trying to tell him—the bond that they'd had all along. She was perfect for him, and she would fill all of his empty spaces.

He wanted her so badly.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth, pressing past the seam of his lips with a determination he hadn't thought she possessed. It coaxed his own tongue up to greet hers, where they caressed each other like meeting for the first time after millennia.

It made him groan, a bolt of desire reverberating from his loins.

His hands moved along the outside of her jumper, up her back, along her shoulders, and up to cup the sides of her face. Draco tilted his head to the side and kissed her back with all of the need he felt in his body. Every time their lips parted, he heard her whimper like she needed this kiss more than he did. Like _she_ was the one consuming _him_.

And he was going to let her.

He felt her fingers sliding into his hair, fingernails scraping along his scalp. It was good—so good. Everything about her was good. His eyelids rolled behind his closed eyelids and he moaned. His voice was breathy, high-pitched.

"Did you like that?" she whispered against his mouth, and then she scratched wide circles on both sides of his scalp. His hood fell back.

"Yes," he said, his head falling back to rest on the chair back. " _Fuck_ —yes."

"And this?"

He felt her rock her hips without stopping the gentle scraping of her nails. With her sitting sideways on him, the sensation going from left to right instead of back to front was enough to drag another sound out of him. Something akin to a keening whimper that he knew he'd never made before with anyone else. His fingers shifted up into her curls, twisting them around as he fought the urge to buck his hips upward.

And then she dipped her head down and ran her tongue along the chains tattooed at the base of his neck. Just licked them, like he was made of sugar. From one side to the other.

Stars burst behind his eyelids.

"Salazar . . . _Fucking_ damn it." He whined, the words pinned down beneath his breath as he battled every fiber in his being that wanted him to rut up into her. " _Merlin—_ ah. _Please._ Fuck. _Fuck_."

He didn't want to hurt her, or scare her. If she wanted the control, he would give it to her. But sweet Circe, he was as hard as a rock.

She kissed his lips again, mouth open as he moaned into her. He tugged on her hair, pulling her closer, increasing the pressure. His toes curled in his shoes. He wanted her so bad. So, so bad.

Suddenly, she jerked backward, a small sound of confusion sounding out. His eyes snapped open as worry bled through his lust and he lifted his head.

"Sorry," she said, closing her eyes. She shook her head a bit and then pulled her hand from his hair, holding it to her temple. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"You've only had a salad today?" His hands went to her hips, and he placed her back in her own seat. The blood in his pelvis began to return to the rest of his body at the alarming news.

She gave him a sharp look, looking windswept by the tousled state of her curls and the swelling in her lips. "Why are you keeping track of what I eat?"

"I'm not." His heart dropped a bit, and he twisted the truth. "I just happened to notice today."

"Well, it's none of your business what I'm eating."

He narrowed his eyes and bit his tongue. He wanted to tell her that it _was_ his business, that he was supposed to care for her, but he knew he couldn't. She didn't want this bond, no matter how badly he did.

But he was going to worry about her anyway.

"It _is_ my business, until the bond is reversed," he said, raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. "If you die, I die."

For a split second, she looked enraged. More livid than he'd ever thought her capable of being. She clenched her hands into fists on her lap, appearing as though she were about to blow up on him. Almost like she were going to throw a tantrum.

He leaned back in his seat, taken aback at the level of ire he saw painted across her face.

Then, it faded.

"You're being dramatic," she said. "I was busy today, and I missed lunch. I just need to go back to the room and eat a snack. Come on."

Before he could say anything else, she got up and walked out of the alcove.

* * *

Draco was too agitated to sleep.

After feeling Hermione's lips against his own and her hips rolling in his lap, he wasn't sure how he was going to be able to sleep tonight. In spite of that, she _had_ been right. He noticed that the storm of grey and multicolored specks was not active within him. The kiss had worked, buying them more time. He wasn't high anymore and after the way their miniature study session had gone, he was tempted to smoke again. But that was a bit difficult with Hermione sitting on the floor with her back against his legs.

He was sitting on the couch, reading the section of the marriage bonding book that they'd been looking at in the Library. He'd changed into his trackies and regular tee shirt that he always wore for pyjamas. Currently, he was skimming the historical foreword, which was informing him about "famous" witches and wizards who had successfully completed binary star bonds for their marriages. It wasn't terribly interesting, but he wanted to be thorough.

The weight of Hermione leaning against his calves was welcome, and something he knew he could get used to. She had changed into an oversized tee shirt that fell to mid-thigh and a pair of baggy pyjamas trousers, and her curls were pulled up into two haphazard buns. She sat on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chest while her hand sifted through a package of blue tortilla crisps. She'd just opened the large bag and tucked in.

He'd asked her what they were, and she'd said they were her current favorite, and explained in an irritable voice how her "favorite" foods rotated every few weeks. When he'd laughed and asked her what that even meant, she'd said, " _I don't really eat when I'm hungry. I eat what I'm craving."_

"When do you want to do the tree?" he asked, turning to the next page in the book.

"I dunno," she said. "Tomorrow? It doesn't really matter—I'm not leaving for holiday."

"Not going to see Potter?"

"At The Burrow?" She snorted and chomped on a crisp loudly. Her hand dove back into the bag before she'd even finished chewing. "Absolutely not."

"A burrow? What burrow? Burrowing where?"

She dissolved into an inadvertent fit of giggles as she licked crisp dust off of her fingers and then kept grabbing more. " _The_ Burrow. It's Ron's family home. They call it The Burrow."

Draco snorted. "I'm thoroughly unsurprised. They _would_ name their hovel in such a way."

"Don't be a prat." _Chomp. Chomp. Chomp._ "Your family home is called _The_ Manor. You're both Pureblood families."

"Some of us are a little more honorable than others."

"I—" _Chomp. Chomp._ Pause. _Chomp._ "Ronald may not be honorable, but the rest of the family is. George is loyal, Ginny lights up a room, Percy is reliable, Bill is kind, Charlie is adventurous, Arthur—their father is endearing, and Molly—their mother has the loveliest heart. And I don't want to make excuses for Ron, but he's got his good qualities."

"Wasn't there one more?" He moved on to read a third page.

_Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp._

"Granger." He jostled his leg to nudge her back. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes," she said, voice quiet. "The other was Fred, George's twin brother."

Draco read the same sentence repeatedly.

Of course. How could he have forgotten? Dumbeldore's Army had had way more heartbreaking losses than the Dark Lord's. Students, professors, children, and adults. Sometimes, Draco was so wrapped up in his own loss that he forgot he wasn't the only one who knew what it was like to have an unfillable hole in his heart.

"I remember him," he said. "He was as funny as he was heroic, I'm sure."

Hermione ducked her head down, saying nothing as she stuffed a large handful of crisps into her mouth. Her cheeks filled to the brim—so full that it took her a bit longer to chew and swallow them all.

Her hand was in the bag immediately after.

Draco sensed that she needed some peace and quiet, so he went back to reading. The steady _chomp, chomp, chomp_ of her eating began to drone on in the background. After ten minutes or so, she cleared her throat.

"I'm off to the loo," she said, and then she was out of the room.

Draco watched her go, heard the door click shut, and then he looked at the ground. She'd left the crisps bag. She'd been eating them so heartily that he was sure they had to be delicious. Holding his book from the top so he didn't lose his place, he leaned down and grabbed the bag.

It was empty.

_Fuck, she ate those fast._

He set the bag back on the floor, then _accio_ ed his wand from where he'd left it in his coat pocket. He smirked to himself at his eternal laziness and vanished the empty packaging. He always was surprised when his mother had eaten entire packages of food after first opening them.

 _Wait_.

Draco looked down the hall, a deep frown on his face. His heart began to beat faster as once again, reality slammed into him like a stray Bludger. Because all the facts were staring him down, waiting for him to put them together.

The alternating eating habits. The frequent trips to the loo. The swooning spells. The irritability and borderline temper tantrums. The baggy way her clothes fit. The fact that the crisps weren't the first thing she'd eaten when they got back to the common room—they were the third.

She'd eaten a meal from the refrigerator and a package of chocolates she'd fished from her dorm room.

 _But it_ can't _be. She's Hermione Granger, and she's the most put-together witch in the world._

_There's no way she's . . ._

He remembered the blue flecks under the rim of the toilet.

Blue flecks. Blue crisps.

" _I eat what I'm craving."_

He stared at the book until the pages blurred, and thirty minutes later, the bathroom door came open again. Lowering the book, he turned to look at her.

Hermione padded into the room, wearing only the giant tee shirt. Her curly hair was damp, hanging in wet strips to her elbows that dripped onto the floor. Her eyes were half-shut, and she looked like she'd never felt more tired. She swayed slightly on her feet.

"Hermione," he said, stretching her name out. "Are you okay?"

She hung her head, wringing her hands beneath her chest. Her shoulders rose, like she was more uncomfortable than she'd ever been before. He sat up straight, watching her chin quiver and her brows come together on her forehead. She stood before him, swaying and small and in need, crumbling like a wall made of clay.

His heart squeezed in a vice.

"Come here," he said, the words simple and necessary.

She burst into tears, dissolving into uncontrolled sobs. Shrinking in on herself, she climbed into his lap, immediately soaking his shirt with the shower water. She curled up there, resting her head against his chest beneath his shoulder. And she wept.

His eyes swept her body—her bare arms and legs—and he saw her for the first time. Saw her for the person she used to be, and the person she'd wasted away into. Saw what the ignorance of her friends had wrought. Saw the results of the harm she'd been doing to herself.

Saw his mother reflected in her torment.

He dropped the book to the floor with a soft _thud._ His arm wrapped around her shoulders to show her that he wasn't going to let her fall. His other hand sifted through her curls, getting expectantly tangled, and his thumb wiped her tears away in spite of the futility.

"There's a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head that he wished he could have given to his mother. He closed his eyes against the sudden prickling in his eyes. "You're okay."

"I'm not," she sobbed. "I'm not okay."

He tightened his hold on her. "I know, love. But you're strong. You're the strongest witch I know, and I've got you now."

"Stop."

"No," he whispered, thumb slick with her tears. "I need you to know that you're not alone."

" _Stop_." Her sobs started anew, wracking her body and causing her to pull her legs up closer to him. She burrowed her face into his chest. " _Please stop. Please, please."_

" _No_ ," he growled and he used her hair to tilt her face upward. He looked down into her eyes, directly into them even as they overflowed. "I need you to listen to me, Hermione."

She started to close her eyes, and he tugged on her curls to get her to open them again.

"I'm here," he said. _Not Weasley. Not Potter. Not Theo. "_ Me. Draco. _I'm here."_

Draco knew why she was crying.

He knew, and even though he knew he didn't want it to be true, he was glad he was the one who knew. He was the only person who could possibly understand. The only person who could help her.

The only person who could fix it.

Draco held her until they drifted off and woke up in Paris.


	21. Chapter 21

**Credits for the " _he looks like he could kill you but is a cinnamon roll_ " premise goes to the reviewer ehlara on ao3.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Nineteen**

_The Eiffel Tower._

_Draco felt his heart sinking as his gaze washed over the tower, the mountains, and the buildings he recognized. He was standing at a window overlooking a Paris that basked underneath the setting sun._

_That meant that it was August 17_ _th_ _, 1998._

_Again._

_The first thing he did was lift his arms, hoping they weren't Hermione's. Relief flooded his body when he saw the familiar black and grey tattoos littering his fingers, hands, and forearms. He was in his own body._

_He looked to the left and then the right, seeing the familiar ugly floral cream wallpaper of the hotel room. The red décor. The green carpet. The bed, the bathroom, the mirror._

_Hermione, standing in front of it._

_She stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes wide. Her body was wrapped in the short, red satin dress he recognized, with the square neckline and the ruched sides. The nylons, the strappy heels, the crimson lipstick—he recognized it all._

_He took a step toward her, acutely aware of the fact that his feet were bare and he was in the pyjamas he'd fallen asleep in._

" _Can you—" He stopped when she began to nod. "So, this isn't a memory, then. It's a dream."_

" _But why here?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Why this again?"_

" _I don't know. Maybe things are different now that we've activated the bond. Maybe it's getting stronger. Or maybe it's because you were so upset. Have you tried to wake up?"_

" _Yes. But it didn't work. I'm stuck here."_

_Hermione looked at herself in the mirror again, appearing crestfallen. He watched her patting her sleek bun, smoothing her fingers along her edges. Saw her smoothing her hands anxiously down the front of her dress. Saw her take a deep breath that shook on its way out._

" _Draco, I can't do this again. I can't."_

" _Maybe you don't have to." Draco took another step toward her, having every intention of putting his hand on her shoulder. "This is a dream of a memory. Perhaps we can make changes."_

" _It won't change anything that happened," she said, frowning. He could see her trying to fortify herself—could see her mentally preparing for what was to come._

" _I don't think I have a choice."_

_Then, they both gasped._

" _Ron's going to walk in," she said. "And this is a dream—I think he'll be able to see you, and even in a dream, I don't want to deal with it."_

_Draco looked around, frantic. Heart pounding, he barreled across the room, ripped open the closet door, and threw himself inside._

" _Hermione, are you really going to wear that?"_

_His mind whirled in the darkness as he tried to get his bearings. He knew where he was, and he knew what was going to happen. Whether or not he was going to be able to fix things this time was up to the will of the dream._

" _Ron, I've told you multiple times that all of us girls agreed to dress up. It's our last night in the city, and we want to have fun with it."_

_Okay, so she was saying the same things she'd said before. Did she have control over what she said? Was it the memory, or was she saying it because she remembered it, too?_

_He closed his eyes and allowed himself a steadying breath._

_No matter what, he needed to remain calm. The last time he'd been here, he'd been inside of Hermione's mind, and hadn't needed to think about where and when. Now that he was in his own body, he could make his own choices about where to go._

_Draco was going to help her. He wasn't going to stand there like he had in the Manor the day his aunt tortured her. He wasn't going to let the man hurt her._

_He had to make the_ right _choices this time._

" _Okay, but don't come crying to me when someone says you look like a slag."_

_Oh, fantastic. Now his desire to beat the fuck out of the Weaselbee was refreshed._

_Draco waited in the closet until he heard the door click shut. He exited and went to sit on the end of the bed._

_None of this made sense._

_The last time he'd been in this memory, it was due to the tea that Pansy had slipped Hermione. They were under the impression that in conjunction with the spell Trelawney taught them, it had caused her to relive her worst memory. As far as he knew, no one had imbibed any tea or cast any spells before they passed out on the couch._

_Unless she didn't need the tea_ or _the spell to relive it anymore._

_He cursed under his breath. How many other times had she had this nightmare since the tea incident? How many times had he gone to sleep and not walked her dreams, thinking it was a fluke or anomaly? Had every time he'd closed his eyes and not seen her been a night where she had to relive it over and over and over?_

_Maybe the tea hadn't caused the memory—maybe it had just unlocked the cell in which Hermione had imprisoned it._

_But there was a big difference this time. Draco was here, in his own body, and she could see him and interact with him. That meant the environment could interact with him, too._

_Could he make changes only to himself, or could he make changes to the course of events?_

_He went over the memory in his mind, trying to remember the directions to the pub. Perhaps if he could make it there in time, he could stop the assault from happening and rewrite it into something bearable._

_There was no reason to relive old traumas._

* * *

_He walked into the pub like he was meant to be there the entire time._

_The dream world had allowed him to change his clothing. He'd put on a black thermal with long sleeves and dark blue denims with a black belt. His platinum blonde hair was messy, as usual, and fell into his eyes as he made his way down the street. His memory had served him well._

_Hermione, Potter, the Weaselbee, and the family members who had been there in the original memory were there. The youngest Weasley, George, Bill and his wife Fleur were there, too. The Weaselbee was sending surreptitious glances in a Muggle girl's direction, souring Draco's mood even more as he recalled Hermione saying that he'd kissed a girl in London before they'd even gone on this trip._

_As he neared the table, he could hear that they were coming to the end of their interrogation about Hermione's future._

_Draco wondered at the ignorance of the people she had called friends and said wonderful things about on the floor of their common room. All these people she loved, and none of them could see that she was quite literally spiraling out of orbit. He didn't have to ask her in real life or in a dream to know that she had no idea what she wanted to do after Hogwarts, and that it was stressing her out._

_He just didn't know how he could help her with that. His own future hung in the balance._

" _What about writing Kingsley?" Potter was saying, just like Draco remembered._

_Hermione's back was to him, so she didn't see him approaching._

" _That's an option," she said, and Draco couldn't help but notice her voice was a bit monotone. Like she was being forced to follow the track of the memory, when she was aware that it was a dream. "I had thought about it. But I can't really think about it until I start Eighth Year."_

" _Are you sure you want to take the risk?" Potter said, lifting his drink. Then, his gaze slid past Hermione. "_ Malfoy _?"_

_All right, so Draco could influence the dream._

_Could he change it?_

_The entire table fell silent as all eyes swiveled to lock onto Draco, who placed his hands on the edge of the table on either side of Hermione. He rested one foot on the lower rung of her stool and pretended not to notice when she leaned back into him, relaxing as though all of the tension had left her body._

" _Potter," Draco said, and then he immediately fell into the false narrative he'd created to explain his presence. "I came on vacation to France to escape my nightmares. Imagine my surprise when I discover my nightmares have decided to escape me in Paris."_

" _Oh, stuff it," Ginny said with a revolted wrinkle of her nose. "You're so full of yourself."_

_Draco smirked and leaned forward a bit further, feeling Hermione's warmth settling in against his torso. "Some rather like being full of me."_

" _Draco," Hermione scolded, jerking her elbow backward into his side. He stifled a laugh and lifted his right hand from the table to catch her forearm in his grasp. Ginny and Potter watched him do it, and then exchanged wide-eyed glances._

_The silence was deafening._

_Within seconds, everyone had their wands out. Potter, Ginny, Bill, Fleur, George, and the Weaselbee—and none of their arms shook. For a brief moment, Draco felt like it really was August, and the tiniest flutter of fear echoed in his chest._

_Then, he remembered it was a dream._

" _What're you going to do?" he said, letting his fingers slide along Hermione's forearm on his hand's way back to the edge of the table. "Commit murder in another country? You know they won't make any exceptions to the law for the Golden Boy and his ilk, right?"_

" _It certainly wouldn't be hard to make it look like self-defense," Potter sneered, his gaze focusing on the tattoos on Draco's neck. "You look the part of a criminal now."_

_Draco, feeling a bit gleeful knowing that it was a dream and they couldn't hurt him, grinned and lifted the front of his shirt. He revealed the fact that his abdomen was completely covered in tattoos, too, relishing in the discomfort he saw there in their eyes._

" _Are you scared?" he drawled. "Because that's not even the half of them."_

" _You're only here to cause trouble, Draco Malfoy," Bill said with his short wand trained directly on Draco's head, "so, I'd suggest you move to another table, or leave the pub."_

_George snickered. "Or we could always commit murder. I've always wanted to see if the Malfoy blood was as pure as they say it is. Ooh! Maybe I can make something with it."_

" _Oh, stop it," Hermione said, propping her chin in her hand. "He's my friend. He can stay."_

_The Weaselbee made a series of spluttering noises as he choked on his own saliva. Ginny's eyebrows shot up as her gaze snapped back and forth between Draco and Hermione's faces. Potter's jaw hung agape. George looked like he was about to start laughing. Bill and Fleur merely exchanged glances before hesitantly lowering their wands._

" _You must be joking," Ginny said. "You can't possibly be friends with—He's_ Malfoy _."_

" _Yes, and he's my friend." Hermione tilted her head back, looking upside-down at Draco with a wide grin on her face. It was clear she was as relieved as he was. "Care to stay for a drink?"_

_If he could influence the dream, then perhaps it didn't have to turn into a nightmare._

" _Stay for a—" Weaselbee scowled and pointed one thick finger in Draco's direction. Hermione was sitting at the end of the table, and he was beside her on the corner. If he jabbed his finger anymore forcefully, he'd hit Draco. "Hermione, have you gone_ absolutely _mental? First, you leave the hotel wearing—after our row without trying to make anything right, and now you're suddenly friends with Malfoy? How come you've never said anything about this to any of us? When did you have time to become friends with him after everything his father did? Everything_ he _did during the war? Do you ever think before you do anything? You act like you're so smart, but then you go and do shite like—like_ this _!"_

_Draco grimaced. Not only was Weaselbee censoring the true circumstances of their argument and how he'd called her a slag, but he was making it seem like Hermione was lying to try and cover something up. He could see why Hermione hadn't wanted to deal with him. She was a strong witch and a stronger person, but no one could deal with this._

_Except Draco._

" _Can you shut the_ fuck _up?" he snarled, moving to Hermione's left and letting his hand settle in the dip of her lower back. "Stop talking to her like that, you brainless oaf."_

_Weasley stared at him with a slack-jawed expression, and Draco continued._

" _Just because your witch is more intelligent than you and you're bloody jealous of the fact that she knows two-plus-two and you don't, doesn't give you the right to talk to her like that."_

_This new silence was one of discomfort, but somewhere beneath it, Draco could sense an air of approval. In fact, when he glanced past the Weaselbee and looked at Ginny, she was hiding a smile behind her hand and shooting Hermione a pointed look._

" _You're just gonna sit there and let him talk to me like that?" Weasley said, as though Draco hadn't even said anything._

" _Hey!" Draco snapped his fingers in front of the Weaselbee's face and stepped around to Hermione's other side. "She's not the one who was speaking to you._ I _was. If you can't answer the question, then keep your mouth shut, weasel!"_

_Out came Weasley's wand again._

_Draco reached into the back pocket of his trousers for his own wand, irritated to find that it wasn't there. When he tried to imagine it was—since it was a dream—nothing happened._

_It appeared it didn't want him to have his wand._

_Odd._

_No matter. He could just use his fists. He'd been waiting for the chance and better in a dream than never._

_Hermione hopped off of the stool and turned to face him. She placed her hands on his chest to stop him from lunging forward. He glowered at the Weaselbee over her head, who was barely being held back by an overwhelmed Potter._

" _I don't know who you think you are, talking to me like that!" Weaselbee roared, spittle flying from his bared teeth. His skin was ruddy and red. "I should_ crucio _you for everything you've done, you fucking wanker! I should rip your eyes out and hex you to Hell, you bloody fucking tosser! You—"_

"Ron _!" Potter was yelling in the chaos. Pub patrons were watching with interest and the bartender was heading over with an expression of anger in his eyes. "Ron, you've got to_ cool _it!_

" _You belong in Azkaban alongside your piece of rubbish father, you Death Eater trash son of a bitch! You bloody fucking meaningless waste of—"_

" _Draco, just ignore him," Hermione said, pushing Draco back again. In her heels, the top of her head reached his chin instead of his shoulders. It felt almost alien to be able to look into her eyes from this close. She was stunning, but he was angry._

_He wrapped his hands around Hermione's wrists, his thumbs stroking her pulse just because her skin felt soft, even here. "Respectfully, Granger—I'm going to lay his arse out. So, you'd best move."_

" _It's just . . . A dream," she said under her breath, holding his gaze._

" _But—"_

" _A_ dream, _Draco."_

 _He sighed and looked over at the table again. George was casually ordering another drink from the bartender. Bill and Fleur were bustling around the establishment, casting_ obliviate _repeatedly. Ginny was watching them with her arms crossed and an eyebrow quirked._

_And then the Weaselbee crossed the line._

" _You belong six feet under with your whore of a Death Eater mother, you fucking_ piece _of Thestral_ shite! _"_

_Hermione whirled around to face Ron, and Ginny's hands flew to her mouth. Even Potter looked mortified. Bill and Fleur hadn't heard, but George looked like he was witnessing gossip unfolding right before his eyes. He merely sipped his alcohol._

_How dare Weaselbee talk about his mother like that, real or not? This was coming from Hermione's subconscious. That meant the Weasel had to have said things similar before._

_Draco forgot it was a dream._

_He lost his shite._

_Without so much as a warning, he made a break for Weaselbee, whose face flashed with terror. Draco pushed his sleeves up as he went, eyes blazing with the fires of his hatred for the redheaded freak._

" _You're dead. You're fucking dead!" he roared in a hoarse voice._

_Potter turned to face Draco, his wand out with the point up to protect his friend out of pure loyalty, but Draco continued to yell, his entire body hot with rage. He'd only been this angry a few times before, but right now, it was like the flames had consumed him._

" _I'm gonna fucking slit your throat, you fucking tosser. That's my mother. Don't you fucking talk about my mother! Don't you—"_

_Hermione was joined by Ginny. Both girls stood with their backs to Potter, who had given up on the wand threat and was now facing the Weasel. It took a few tries with a lot of yelling and more memory erasure to the patrons by Bill and Fleur, but soon the boys were separated. George kept laughing._

_Chaos._

" _Go take a break, Malfoy," Ginny said, shaking her head._

" _What are you talking about?!" Draco yelled, throwing his hand out. "He's the one who—"_

" _You knew what you were doing when you walked up," Ginny cut in, rolling her eyes. She grabbed her drink and took a sip. "You knew it was going to cause issues."_

" _You wanted to cause problems because you're_ rubbish _!" Weaselbee roared._

_Draco opened his mouth to retort but stopped at the withering stare from Hermione._

_She was right. It was just a dream. He was wasting time—none of this was going to change the outcome. He needed to take a break in the bathroom for a second, where he could be alone to think. He needed to figure out what to do because at this rate, Hermione and Weasley were still going to fight. If they fought, he was going to take her wand again._

" _Fuck you, Weaselbee," Draco spat, backing away and pointing both pointer fingers at him. "Fuck you for that, and fuck you for talking about my mother."_

_He turned and stormed down the nearest hallway, towards the loo._

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

_Hermione crashed into his back right as he was entering the single bathroom. She reached past him urging him inside, and then slammed the door shut behind them. Panting and breathless, she turned the lock and whirled around to face him._

" _I'm so sorry," she said, voice tremulous. "He can be such a monster and I never noticed until this year. I don't know what I thought would happen, but maybe I should have come up with a more solid plan with you. In a dream or not in a dream: you should never have to hear such horrible things about Narcissa."_

" _No," Draco said, still seething. "There wasn't any time—we only had about two minutes."_

" _Okay," she said. "But it's no excuse. I should have known he was going to blow up if you walked into the pub. There's no dimension where Harry, Ron, and the others would ever be all right with you just showing up like that."_

_Draco looked at her then, studying her face. The flush to her cheeks, the light in her eyes that never seemed to be there when they were awake. The way her chest rose up and down with her adrenaline, and the gentle slope of her neck into her bronzed shoulders. The red of her lips playing off the red satin of her dress._

_Salazar, she was fucking gorgeous._

_Then, he frowned._

_Her body looked different than it had in the last shared dream. She looked fuller, more healthy. The dark circles underneath her eyes were gone, and her lips weren't chapped. He couldn't see the horizontal ridges of her chest bone anymore. When she crossed her arms over her chest, he saw breasts where there weren't any in the present day. And when his eyes swept down to her legs, the only way he could describe the way they looked was supple._

_His heart sank._

_When it was up to her, her vision was skewed. When her subconscious made the decision, she appeared healthy and well._

_It was the nail in the coffin._

_Hermione wasn't well._

But wait, _he thought as his eyes met hers again,_ if she couldn't change the way her body and clothes looked this time . . . Does that mean she can't affect the dream on her own?

_Determination threaded its way through him, fortifying his resolve. Just like Sixth Year, when it was all resting on his shoulders. Only this time, he knew he was strong enough._

_He_ had _to fix this._

" _He's said that shite before, hasn't he?" Draco said, leaning over the small counter with his palms flat to the tiles. "And that's why he said it out there."_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _This is a dream based on a memory, Hermione. It's your subconscious. It can't make the Weasel say something he either hasn't already said, or isn't likely to say."_

" _Theoretically."_

" _Yes, but still."_

" _Okay, fine." Hermione sighed. "Yes, he's said that sort of stuff before. Harry has never said anything about your mother, but I've overheard them insulting you multiple times."_

" _And you never joined in?"_

" _Do I seem like that sort of person?" she asked, brows coming together in visible offense. "I know I've got a temper, but I'm not the sort to gossip. Even about you."_

" _Hm." He glanced at the door. "Shouldn't you go back out there?"_

" _Not yet. I seem to be on some sort of . . . Preconceived general track. When you're around, I seem able to speak my mind and say what I wish, but before you got to the pub, I was saying the things from the memory. It felt like I was reciting a script from a play. My body moved, but I wasn't able to make it turn, or stop, or anything like that."_

" _So, it stands to reason that as long as you stick near me, we can get you through this."_

_She bit her lower lip. "I don't know. Something doesn't feel right about it. The last time, it was a memory. This time, it feels like a nightmare. There's something . . . Sinister about it. It feels like it's not going to be as easy as we think. It doesn't feel like the times I went into your dream."_

" _Do you think it has something to do with the bond?"_

" _Yes," she said. "Unequivocally. I think that when you first started having the dreams, I hadn't been through my Awakening, and that's why you were only able to watch. Once I did, I was able to enter your dreams. But I don't think we're in the second level, either. I think we're in the third."_

_They locked eyes and then quickly looked away._

" _Whatever happens, let's just go with the flow. It may be that we aren't getting any answers tonight. As for the Weaselbee, if I_ — _no._ When _I see him again—and I mean in real life—I'm done, Hermione. Do you understand me?" He turned his head towards her. "The Weasel is fucking done."_

_Her expression took on an exasperated appearance. "You can't attack Ron at school for something he said in a dream."_

" _No, but I can attack him for the things he's done, and the things he_ has _said." Draco smirked. "Or simply because I want to."_

" _You'd better not."_

" _Or else what?" He breathed out a laugh and looked down at her. "What are you gonna do about it?"_

_She sighed and uncrossed her arms, stepping closer to him. Draco felt his breath go still in his chest when she reached out and brushed her fingers across the front of his thermal. It was strange, but for the first time, he couldn't feel the storm. His lips curled up in a small smile._

" _What are you doing?"_

" _You're covered in dust," she said. "And hairs. Why would you imagine yourself into this fabric?"_

 _He laughed. "_ That's _what you're worried about?"_

" _No. That's not what I'm worried about."_

_She stopped sweeping the imaginary hairs off of his shirt and let her hand rest flat against his sternum. He knew she could feel the way his heart was beating, and he wondered if she knew how nervous he was. There was so much that could go wrong._

" _It's gonna be okay," he murmured, and then he covered her hand with his own, pinning it there. "You're not gonna have to relive this again."_

" _I don't know," she whispered. He could tell she was trying to be logical and matter-of-fact about it. "I don't want to get my hopes up. I've tried to wake up, but it feels like I'm trapped."_

" _Well, I'm not even going to try and open my eyes," he said, pulling her hand away from his chest so he could hold it in both of his. "We're getting through this together, just like last time."_

" _Do you promise you'll come find me?"_

" _Always." As the words left him, he realized how true they were with a flip of his stomach._

_She turned her head, her cheeks reddening. He knew she was still ashamed of that experience. She had to be. How often could someone say they'd had to relive an assault and experienced having their school bully in their head feeling it all with them?_

_It was in and of itself humiliating._

" _Whatever this is," Hermione said, "this has to be the last time. I cannot—_ cannot— _ever relive this night again."_

" _I know."_

" _Draco . . ."_

" _I_ know _." He tugged on her hand, her heels clacking against the linoleum as she stumbled closer. "We'll go into my dreams every night, if we have to."_

_If they accepted the bond, that is._

" _No, you don't understand." She pulled her hand out of his grasp and looked up at him with a resolute glint in her eyes. "When we wake up, I want you to_ obliviate _me."_

_Oh._

Oh.

" _What?" he said._

" _You're a Legilimens, right? Like your father? I thought I heard it through the grapevine."_

" _No—I mean, yes." He waved his hand, fingers fluttering in dismissal. "My father is not, but I am. Snape trained me. I started exercises before my magic even presented."_

_He knew everyone knew Snape was his godfather, so when she simply kept speaking, he was unsurprised._

" _Good. Then it should be no trouble for you to_ obliviate _the memory of Paris from my mind."_

 _Something about that didn't sit right with him. It wasn't that he_ wanted _her to keep it, but he knew firsthand the dangers of erasing trauma from a person's mind. He'd tried to Occlude his own memories of the war away, only to find that the pain lingered with no cause for it._

_But it was her life, and she was suffering._

" _All right," he said. "If you're sure."_

" _I . . ." She closed her eyes. "I think I am."_

" _Do you want to maybe think about it before?"_

_She looked panicked for a moment, the anxiety flickering across her face like shadows, and he reacted without thinking. His hand curved around the back of her neck and dragged her forward the rest of the way, until her cheek pressed against his chest._

" _Don't worry about it right now," he said. "There's other things going on, and no reason to think about what happens when you wake up when you haven't finished sleeping."_

" _Okay," she mumbled into his shirt._

" _And maybe . . . Maybe we oughta handle this bonding magic before we tackle memory erasure. Is that a good compromise?"_

" _I don't_ want _to compromise." She started to lean back, but he pressed tighter so she couldn't. "Draco, I don't want to compromise. I'm set on this."_

" _For how long have you been set on this?" he said. "Because I'm not erasing your memory until I know you've_ thoroughly _thought this through."_

_She wrenched herself away, her sudden vehemence catching him off guard, and glared up at him._

" _Why are you doing this to me?" she cried. "Why are you trying to make me live with this? Stop treating me like I'm mad!"_

" _Aren't you?!" he hollered back, throwing his hands up into the air. The words were on the tip of his tongue, steeped in frustration. He wanted to tell her he knew she wasn't eating, but he didn't want to make things worse than he already had._

" _No," she hissed, hands in fists at her sides. "I'm not mad. I'm not mental. I'm not insane. I'm a woman who has been through_ too much _pain, and I'm tired of it. Every time I close my eyes, I see him, and I can't_ take _it anymore. If you don't do it, then I'll find someone who will."_

" _Then why haven't you asked someone before me?" he cried. "Why would you think I would be the one to do it?"_

" _Because you're the only one who knows!" she shrieked, eyes wide. "You're the_ only _one who knows it happened, and you're the only one I want to know about it. You're the_ only _one who—" Her voice broke and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, they were glassy. "You're the only one who cares enough about me to do exactly as I ask, regardless of the legal grey areas."_

" _So, you think that because I'm the type to break the rules, I'll perform an illegal, unsanctioned Obliviation on you, because I care about you?"_

" _Yes!"_

_He stared at her. "You realize that's manipulation, yeah? You realize that's you subscribing to your own prejudices about me—" He gestured with his hand, as though pointing to himself standing to the right of the room. "—and using them to get what you want."_

_She flinched as his words sank in. "Yes, okay? I won't deny I'm manipulative. I won't deny that, but . . . I don't want to fight with you, Draco."_

" _And I don't want to fight with you. But you can't expect me to do whatever you ask without being willing to come to some sort of compromise." She gave him the look of a petulant, annoyed child, but he kept going. "I will do this for you_ only _after we've handled the star bond. Not a second before. Do you understand me?"_

" _But that's not fair!" she cried. "It's my head, and I—"_

" _And_ my _wand." He grabbed her chin and forced it upward. "Do you understand me, Granger?"_

_She pursed her lips together, glowering up at him before finally biting out a clipped agreement._

" _Good girl," he said, feeling his irritation filling his chest. He let go of her chin, watching her eyes flash as she continued to glare at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter, so tall that he was able to do so. "You're infuriating, you know that?"_

" _I do know that."_

" _Yeah, well . . ."_

_Hermione's hands snapped up to grab the sides of Draco's face. His arms flew out to his sides as she yanked him down to her level, a surprised sound leaving his mouth._

_And then she was kissing him._

_She was standing between his legs and kissing him with the full force of a woman on an angry mission. He tasted a toxic cocktail of ire, desperation, and stress in her mouth, reflected in the way her tongue lashed against his. She dominated that kiss, from the tips of her fingers slowly scraping their way into his hair, to the way she leaned her entire body against his._

_He gasped into her mouth and clutched her hips for some sort of anchor as he tried to keep up with her, his mind and heart racing._

_Was this because of the bond? Was she already feeling the storm whipping up again? He wasn't, so if it wasn't the bond, then what was this?_

_Hermione pulled back a bit, her back arching to fit the curve of his torso, and she looked up at him._

" _Wait," he said. "You—"_

_Her lips met his again, searing in how hot they were. It pulled him under, keeping him from breaching the surface and getting a breath of fresh air. The loo felt smaller than it had before, the walls seeming to be their entire world._

_Draco tilted his head and kissed her back, trying to gain some sort of footing on solid ground so he could dominate. He didn't like being the one caught off guard, and he didn't like that they were snogging right now._

_Did they even have time for this?_

_His hands clutched her face, pushing her back._

" _Wait a fucking second," he said. "What—"_

_She pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes with a forceful jerk, her face slipping through his hold. Her lips smashed against his yet again and her arms wrapped so tight around his neck that it would be impossible for him to extricate himself from her._

_He could feel his feet slipping on ice, the dips and crevices in his resolve melting beneath him._

_If she was kissing him like this, then maybe it was because she wanted to. Maybe it had nothing to do with the bond. Maybe she was kissing him because she actually wanted to kiss_ him _._

_Her lips broke from his, ghosting along his jaw. Her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him down again so she could stand flat on her heels._

" _It's only a dream," she whispered into his ear, her voice sending chills down his spine._

_She was right. It was only a dream._

_Draco tossed his faculties aside, turned his head, and captured her lips. The moment he did, he consumed her like the flames that were devouring his flesh. His hands stroked down her sides, sliding around to grip her rear, and he lifted her._

_Hermione made a surprised sound against his lips as he spun her around and set her down on the counter. Her thighs bracketed his hips as they kissed, the heat in the room rising to almost unbearable levels. Her back pressed to the mirror, one of her hands reaching up to touch the glass while the other tangled so deep in his hair that it actually hurt._

" _You know what you're doing," he growled against her lips. Desperation to be close to her urged him to wrap his hands around her thighs and pull the lower half of her body against his. His eyes opened and darted up and down her face. "You manipulative little_ witch _."_

" _Or maybe—" She breathed a huff that ended on a moan when his lips found her pulse. "Or maybe I'm just hoping this changes things enough. Maybe I'm h-hoping you'll—ah—rewrite history."_

_At her words, Draco paused. He looked up at her, his hands sliding along the smooth flesh of her thighs—something he had yet to do in waking._

_Did she want to . . . ?_

_Did she think doing it in the confines of the dream would be enough to change it?_

" _You want me to erase him?" he whispered, tilting his head to the side and brushing his nose against hers. He felt her lips grazing the skin of his own. "Before he even gets a chance to lay his hands on you?"_

 _Their eyes locked. Her hands cupped the back of his head. In her face, he saw a need that transcended the flesh. She_ did _want Draco to erase him. But the indecision was so clear. The fear and the anxiety._

_Draco wasn't going to do that to her, and he had no desire to. He wanted to save her, not ruin her._

" _No," she mumbled. "Yes. I don't know."_

" _Granger," he said. "You can't possibly be thinking clearly in this situation."_

" _I hate this," she said. "I hate how terrified I am. This isn't me. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be weak."_

" _Oh, you're anything but weak," he said, feeling his own desperation singing through his veins. He reached for her._

_They kissed again, this time much gentler than before—a soft melding of their mouths. He could tell she was trying to escalate it, but he had to stop her. He couldn't let her make a decision like this based out of fear._

_Suddenly, she pushed against his chest._

" _I have to go out there," she said._

" _Is it—"_

" _I think Ginny's about to go outside to smoke. The dream wants me to go out there. It feels like a—a need. A pull on my thoughts." She slid back to the floor and headed for the door._

" _Should we talk about this? When we wake up?"_

" _What for?" She looked him directly in the eyes. "It was the bond."_

_He watched her go, trying not to drown in the emptiness her words created within him._

" _I'll be out soon," Draco said, turning to the sink and the mirror above it. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in all directions._

_Hermione had walked through the door with a blank expression on her face, one that filled Draco with a sense of trepidation._

_What if the blank expression was because she was unable to hear him when she was following the dream's wishes?_

_What if he wasn't going to be able to keep his promise?_

_He splashed water against his face to halt his train of thought. No. He wasn't going to do this. He wasn't going to let his fears get the best of him. He was going to set his shoulders back, march out there, and stand by Hermione's side for as long as the dream would let him._

_Draco left the bathroom, his gaze falling upon the table. Everyone was there save for Ginny and Hermione, who Draco knew were now outside at this point. He looked at Potter first, who didn't seem to see him, or didn't care about his presence any longer. Then, he glanced at the Weaselbee._

_The redheaded fool was sipping his alcoholic beverage, sneering at Hermione's purse. He picked it up and slammed it down in front of him, as though it were the most annoying, difficult task in the world to have to watch over it._

_Draco actually wanted to punch him for that._

_Turning, he headed for the side door. As he neared it, he heard the witches' voices before he smelled the smoke of Ginny's cigarette. The conversation was markedly different from the one they'd originally had, and that lifted his spirits._

_If he could influence the conversation when he wasn't around her, that was a good sign. It had to be._

" _I'm shocked that you're friends with him, Hermione," he heard Ginny say as he leaned against the wall. "When did that happen?"_

" _Oh, just you know," Hermione said. "It just did."_

" _I saw him getting the tattoos during Seventh Year, but I don't remember him getting the one on his neck," Ginny said. "That's new. And terrifying. And it looks painful."_

" _I like it," Hermione said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I like all of his tattoos, actually. It makes him look rather dashing, don't you think?"_

" _Hermione!" Ginny said with a gasp. "I mean, he's always been attractive. But now he looks scary." She giggled. "All tall and brooding like that . . . He looks like he could kill me."_

" _I know," Hermione said, and she was laughing, too. "But honestly, he's quite possibly the sweetest guy I know. He looks like he could kill you, but he's a teddy bear."_

" _A teddy bear?" He heard Ginny inhale and then blow the smoke out between her lips. "Draco Malfoy?"_

" _Well . . . He's a bit sweeter than that, like a marshmallow or a cinnamon bun. He's not the person he made himself out to be when we were younger. I think back then, he was misunderstood. But now he's—he's different. He's not Malfoy, the terror of Hogwarts anymore. He's—"_

" _Draco?"_

_Hermione was quiet for a minute before she said, "Yes. I call him Draco."_

" _It's only been three-and-a-half months since the war ended, and there's a lot of past between the two of you," Ginny said. "I just hope you're careful with a friendship like that."_

" _I am," Hermione said. "And he's careful with me."_

" _Hmm."_

_Draco spun away from the wall and stepped outside, his hands in his pockets. He knew they had bigger things to worry about, but he couldn't stop his mouth from curving into a smirk. He sauntered over to Hermione, who looked like she'd just been caught stealing from Flourish and Blotts. Leaning against the railing beside her, he spoke to Ginny._

" _I'm terrifying?"_

_Ginny's smirk mirrored his as she brought her cigarette to her lips again. "And you're an eavesdropper, too."_

" _I'm a Slytherin." He took one hand out of his pocket and wrapped it around the metal railing behind him. He felt Hermione lean closer, felt her back brushing up against his knuckle. "We like to be where we don't belong."_

_Ginny's gaze dropped and her eyebrows rose. "I'll say."_

_They chatted for a couple more moments, and then went back inside. Just like last time, the scent of smoke clung to both her and Hermione. Together with the added sight of Draco towering over Hermione from behind, the Weaselbee looked about ready to explode._

_They all returned to their seats, and Draco stood to Hermione's left. Harry said something to Ginny, who then said something to Fleur. Bill and George leaned in to say something to one another. Hermione started to reach for her purse, and a sudden laugh from another pub patron startled her. Her wrist knocked into one of the Weaselbee's empty glasses, sending ice scattering on the floor._

" _Oh, my!" She drew her hand back, her mouth dropping open. "I'm so sorry, Ron!"_

" _Merlin's hut, Hermione!" Weasley looked irritated as he swept ice off of his lap. "Can you look where you're reaching, then? Blimey!"_

_Draco wanted to snap at him, but he kept his mouth shut. Better not to cause any fuss. He was trying to keep them from arguing so that she wouldn't get her wand taken away—not start an entirely new row._

_Hermione sat up straight. Draco saw that one strap of her dress had slipped down her right shoulder. Without thinking, he reached around behind her and pulled it back up. His hand then settled against her lower back again._

_The Weaselbee saw the whole thing._

_He didn't like it._

" _What the fuck is wrong with you?" the oaf snarled. "No—what the fuck are you_ actually _doing right now?"_

" _Nothing," Draco said, his voice deadly and low._

" _Ron, he's not doing anything," Hermione added, and he could hear her voice trembling. She didn't want a fight to happen, either. They were so, so close to the finish line._

" _You just pulled_ my _girlfriend's strap up!" Weasley yelled, and he jabbed his thumb against his chest. "Keyword:_ my _girlfriend!"_

" _Well,_ you _weren't going to do it!" Draco shot back, once again forgetting that this was just a dream._

" _Draco!" Hermione hissed, turning to glare up at him. "Do_ not _."_

" _Look, I'm gonna wait outside," he said, his hand on the edge of the table again. He held Hermione's gaze with a silent question. "Can you come with me?"_

" _Come_ with _you?" Potter choked on his drink, and several uncomfortable glances shifted around the table. "Now, wait a minute."_

_Draco ignored him, as did Hermione._

" _No," she said, eyebrows up. "I think I'll see you when we leave, though."_

_He heard the unspoken words woven in her sentences. She wanted to come with him, but she couldn't. The dream wasn't going to let her. So, in some way, shape, or form, it was still on the preconceived track._

_Okay, they could deal with this. He'd wait right outside the door for her and the second they came out, he'd insert himself into their group. Maybe he could stay near her during the fight, stop it from ever occurring, and then take Hermione in the opposite direction._

_Hopefully then she could wake up._

_None of this could change the past, but if he could somehow rewrite the dream so she never had to relive it again, then he would._

" _What's the point of waiting?!" Weaselbee practically screamed. "You're not coming with—" He glared at Ginny, who was trying to placate him. "He's not coming with us!"_

" _Hermione," Draco said over the ruckus, his voice strained as he fought the desire to lunge for the Weasel. He didn't have it in him to care about this scenario any longer. This was a dream and Draco being inside with all of these people acting like characters in a play written by Hermione was going nowhere. It was her subconscious and if she didn't think they would ever get along, then they never would. "I'm going to be right outside—_ right _outside, yeah? When you walk out of the pub, look to your right, and I'm going to be sitting on the curb."_

" _On the curb?" Hermione reiterated, glancing out the door, following the direction he was pointing._

" _Yes. On the curb."_

" _Okay," she said with a determined pursing of her lips. She nodded to herself. "On the curb. Got it."_

_He gave her one last meaningful look, which she returned with a brave one of her own, and left the pub._

_Outside, it was cooler than it had been earlier, the nighttime Paris air feeling refreshing after the Hell that was inside. He felt relieved to be away from them all, even if they weren't real. It was, however, a bit disheartening knowing that Hermione felt this way about him._

_What if they ended up accepting the bond? What if they were actually going to spend the rest of their lives together? He had barely realized he fancied her, and now he was having to analyze a potential future. As much as he'd grown to care about her, was that something he could do?_

_Draco waited for a group of partiers to shimmy by, and then he lowered himself until he was sitting on the curb. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his hands trail through his hair with absentminded motions as he watched the Muggle automobiles go by._

_A life with Hermione. Navigating careers, children, and homes. Living in the Manor and trying to figure out how to get the Muggle-hating portraits to shut the bloody Hell up once in a while. Dinners with Potter and the Weasley girl. The inevitable encounter that would play out when the Weaselbee found out._

_The death of the Pureblood future his parents wanted for him—the one he'd been preparing for since he was four._

_The birth of a completely uncharted list of possibilities._

_It was a story in and of itself._

We can handle it later, _Draco thought._ There's only one thing that matters right now and since I can't wake up without leaving her here alone, and she can't wake up at all, I have to focus.

_He turned and looked behind him at the open door to the pub. Finding it hard to see, he stood up and turned to face it. Weird. It sort-of looked like . . ._

_They were gone._

_Confusion etched lines into Draco's face as he walked back into the pub. The table was empty, completely cleared of drinks and napkins. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though no one had been there at all._

_This wasn't part of the plan. How could the entire group have walked past him without him hearing or seeing them? He'd been sitting out there all of five minutes._

_Draco walked back outside. He combed the fingers of both hands through his hair and looked down the sidewalk. He couldn't see them in the distance, and he was definitely tall enough to be able to. From what he recalled, they went left when they exited the pub, traveled a couple of blocks, and then Hermione and the Weasel had had their row._

" _Where the fuck is she?" he muttered under his breath as he walked, glancing down the side streets in the hopes that she'd somehow managed to get them off the main road. "Where_ are _they?"_

_He came to a stop underneath a streetlight that was exactly where they were supposed to be having their row. No one was there._

_A small part of him hoped that perhaps his presence in the pub was enough to redirect the dream. He hoped she'd already woken up, because then—_

_Well, that wasn't possible. If she was awake, why was he still here? No, she was still sleeping._

_But where was she?_

_Draco waited there, crossing his arms and shouldering the lamppost as he did so. His best bet was to wait the same amount of time that Hermione had waited for the Weaselbee to come back. Maybe she'd show up?_

_He only had forty-five minutes._

_So, he waited._

_And waited._

_And waited._

_Neither Hermione nor the Weaselbee ever came._

There's no time, _he though, a burst of panic bleeding into his chest._ I have to follow where she went last time.

I have to find her.

* * *

_Draco walked up and down the alleyway three times._

_She wasn't there. The man wasn't there._

_The alley was empty._

_This was his worst fear. That he wouldn't make it on time, or that he wouldn't be able to help her. And he was trying—he_ had _tried—but something went wrong. He didn't know if it was the dream or if it was Hermione herself, but something had kicked him out. She was going to stay on the same track and experience the memory in its entirety._

_And this time, she'd be alone._

_Again._

_Draco felt the icy claws of fear sinking into his heart, pulling him down into a crouch on the ground. He let out a heavy, despairing sigh. Scrubbing at his face with his hands, he steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and let himself wallow for a solid two minutes._

_He remembered what she'd endured, and he remembered what it was like to be trapped inside of her mind while it was happening. He remembered the pain and the fear and desperation._

_Draco glanced behind him, at the alley wall right where she should be standing. His gaze scoured over the spot. Over the red brick and the grey grooves between each stone, recalling the feeling of her nearly tearing her fingernails out from clawing against them._

_Anger rose up like a fiery dragon inside of him, vengeful and fierce._

_That man had his hands on her. Again._

_Draco had failed to help her. Again._

_He was living down to everyone's expectations. Again._

_This_ was _just like Sixth Year. All of the pressure of the world on his shoulders, but none of the strength to carry it._

" _FUCK!" he screamed, drawing the gazes of several of the people walking by. The emotion overwhelmed him and he hung his head, speaking again in a broken whisper. "Fuck . . ."_

_Within seconds, Draco was on his feet again and lunging toward the wall. He drew his fist back and slammed it into the brick. It was agonizing, lightning bolts of pain shooting up and down his arm from shoulder to knuckle._

_He wished he was awake so he could feel it for real._

_She didn't deserve this. She did not deserve this._

_No one did._

_Draco tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to settle his spirit. He was still in the dream, which meant she was still sleeping. If she was still sleeping, then it wasn't over. He still had a chance to do something good._

_This Slytherin had one more card to play._

* * *

_Draco gasped for air._

_Hands braced against either side of the hotel room doorframe, he panted as he caught his breath. His heart was beating so fast that he was seeing spots. He'd never ran that far, that fast in his entire life, and he hoped he never had to again._

_But he would, if she needed him._

_He took another breath and slammed his fist against the door a second series of times._

" _Hermione, it's me!" he hollered. "Come on and open the door, all right?"_

_Agitated and terrified that something worse had somehow taken place, he began to pace. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his chin, and resisted his very distinct desire to punch another wall. His knuckles had stopped bleeding, but they were as sore as the immense guilt that ached through him._

_He hoped they were sore when he woke up._

_When she still didn't answer, he knew it inside of his heart that it was because she was on the floor. He remembered these moments well—perhaps more vividly than any other moment in this horrific memory. She'd walked all the way back to the hotel in a dazed stupor, and the moment she'd broken down is the moment that had shattered Draco's heart._

_If there was one thing he'd learned from his mother, it was that the people who seemed the strongest were the ones who were the least likely to ask for help when they needed it the most. They'd let their despair poison them if only to keep their armor from cracking. Lucius had done it. Narcissa had done it. So had Draco._

_And their family had perished._

_Something possessed him to reach for the back pocket of his trousers. Something unexplainable that told him it was the right thing for him to do. And when his hand closed around it, his heart stopped._

_The dream hadn't wanted him to have his wand._

_Until now._

_The last of his panic ebbed away like the gentle pull of the tide's end. With a steady arm, he pointed his wand at the door to Hermione and Weasley's hotel room._

"Alohomora _."_

_Beep._

_The red light above the handle, right where the key was supposed to slide in?_

_It turned green._

_Without hesitation, Draco grabbed the heavy silver handle and turned it, pushing the door open enough for him to sidle into the room. He shut it behind him and locked it without looking._

_He heard the thud of her wand dropping. She stood at the end of the bed in a torn dress, covered in scrapes and newly-forming bruises. Blood trickled down the inside of her legs and the sight of it was almost enough to make him lose himself to his rage again._

_His heart sank to the depths. He'd been right. It had happened anyway. The dream hadn't let him save her. Even though he wanted to know why, it wasn't time for that._

_There it was—the inhuman sound that had haunted his mind for weeks. The high-pitched, keening, guttural wail that left her lips as though it were trying to escape the cage her pain created. She didn't realize he was there yet, but he didn't think to announce his presence._

_She collapsed._

_He darted forward and threw his arms around her from the side, one hand gripping the elbow of her outer arm and the other wrapped around the front of her abdomen._

" _I can't," she sobbed, her body completely leaned against him like a limp rag doll. She was shaking with violence. "I can't, I can't, I—"_

" _You can," he whispered, using his determination to keep his voice strong. "You can because I'm here now. I've got you. You_ can _."_

_Either she didn't hear him or she was too emotionally broken to. She kept whispering the words, wailing them as her body continued to pull downward. Draco gave in and sank to the floor with her, knowing that this was what she needed. This—holding her—was the very thing he'd wanted to do._

_Her head lolled against his shoulder and she wept, and wept, and wept. She wept tears of grief and shame. Anguish and horror. The tears of having to experience it the first time, and the tears of having to experience it again._

_It was just a dream, but Draco cried, too._

_She tilted her head back to look up at him, her face devoid of feeling. Without so much as a word, she reached up to wipe the silent tears from his face with her thumbs. Her touch was achingly gentle. His eyelids fluttered shut._

_He cleared his throat. "Shower?"_

_She nodded._

_Getting to his feet, he took her by the elbows and guided her to hers. She wobbled on two trembling legs, just like she had the first time, and allowed him to escort her into the bathroom. Hermione stood swaying, catatonic and quiet as Draco handled the water. Last time, she'd made the water ice-cold. This time, it would be warm and comforting._

_He turned to face her._

_She pulled the straps of her dress down. Her fingers quivered so badly that he had to help her. She reached behind herself to undo the zipper, leaning her forehead against his chest with a dejected sigh. He helped her with that, too._

" _Come here," he said in a soft voice, gentle as he batted her hands away. "Let me help."_

_The zipper slid down and the sides of the dress came open in the back._

" _Wait," he said. "Should I leave?"_

_She shook her head, her chin trembling again. There were tears clinging to her lashes. Draco felt his brow furrowing as he realized that she was about to reveal herself in her entirety to him._

_This was a gift that he did not deserve, but that he would not take advantage of._

" _It's just . . . A dream," she said, her cracked voice barely much more than a whisper._

_The dress fell to the floor at the same speed as the tear that traveled down her cheek._

_Draco didn't look. He simply wiped her tear with his finger and helped her with her brassiere and knickers. Holding her hand, he assisted her into the shower, steadying her as she wobbled. He kept his eyes respectfully on her face as he reached up and began to take her hair down._

_Then, he took a step back, preparing to shut the curtain._

_When it became clear that she wasn't going to wash herself like last time, he drew his shoulders back. Hermione didn't need him standing there, acting like a child. She needed a man who was going to be there for her. If they were bonded to twin stars, then he needed to step up and show her that if they decided to accept that bond, he was going to be able to take care of her._

_She was strong, but she didn't_ have _to be._

_Fully clothed, he got into the shower._

_The water was warm. Scalding, actually, and it seeped into his clothes. It felt odd to be in the shower with them on, but there was no reason for him to make her any more uncomfortable. This was a dream, but it meant something._

_Godric, either he was too tall, or she'd gotten shorter over the duration of the dream. He felt like he could completely envelop her if he wanted to. Which he did want to, if only to protect her from being hurt again._

_He'd never before felt so violently protective over someone and whether it was the bond or not, he wasn't going to ignore the urge. Not right now._

_Hermione dragged her gaze up to meet his, and he locked eyes with her. He didn't look away, even as he lathered up the washcloth with soap. Not even when he began to wash her neck and shoulders. Not when he smoothed the cloth down her arms. Not when he washed her breasts and abdomen. Not when he reached around behind her to wash her back._

_He rinsed the cloth and lathered it again._

_This was the part he dreaded._

_He spoke over the sound of the pounding water, his hair dripping into his eyes. "Do you want me to turn around?"_

_She shook her head, and then with a shaking hand, took the cloth from him. Her left hand went to his shoulder, light and barely-there as she used him for support. Her eyes squeezed shut as she reached between her legs._

_He didn't know if it was because he was there this time or not, but last time, he remembered her being more robotic about it. Now, she was allowing herself to feel the pain._

_Which meant that he was helping._

" _I can't do this again," she whispered, and he could hear her falling apart. "Not again."_

" _It's okay, it's okay," he said, words rushing out as he took the cloth from her again. He wrapped his right arm around her, his fingers trailing up the vertebrae of her spine. "Shh. It's all right. I'll help you."_

" _I'm sorry," she whimpered._

" _No, don't be sorry."_

_He just wanted her to be okay._

_Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he placed his hand on her hip and then crouched down in front of her._

" _Okay?" he said, looking up at her._

_She placed her hands on his shoulders and nodded, her curly brown hair falling in wet strips to her waist. She looked worried and terrified._

" _I have to look, to be able to make sure I get all the blood," he said, keeping his voice low. "Is that all right?"_

_Another nod._

_He forced himself to feel and think nothing as he very clinically and thoroughly washed between her legs. She whimpered from the pain, and it made him want to cry all over again. He wasn't the most sensitive of wizards, but given that he knew exactly how much pain she was in, it wrenched his heart into a knot. That, and watching the blood run crimson down the drain was as nauseating as it was infuriating._

_When he put the cloth in the water stream to rinse it out, he heard her whispering._

" _One."_

_For a brief moment, his eyes closed. He remembered._

_More soap, and then he washed her again._

" _Two."_

_Yet more soap. More gentle scrubbing. His heart hurt almost as bad as the day his mother died._

" _Th-Three." Her voice broke, and she wrangled it back into her control. "Three."_

_He did as she wanted. When he looked up, her eyes were shut and he couldn't tell if she was crying or if it was just the water._

" _Four."_

_Even though she was clean, he washed her womanhood again._

" _Five."_

_He started to stand, but she pushed on his shoulders._

" _Again," she said, voice pleading._

" _You're clean," he said, standing anyway and dropping the soiled cloth to the floor of the tub._

" _No," she said, shaking her head. "No. I'm not clean, and I always regretted not washing again. I should have—" She swallowed. "I should have kept washing."_

" _You're . . . Clean," he said, smoothing his hands over her hair and tilting her chin upward._

" _I'm not. I'm not and I haven't been and I know it's just a dream. It's just a dream, but I'm not clean. I need you to—"_

" _Hermione." He lifted his chin and silenced her with the intensity of his gaze. "You. Are. Clean."_

_A couple of beats passed—a couple of beats of time where Draco wasn't sure what to do. If she asked him again to wash her, he would do it. At this point, he'd do anything for her._

_Her face fell and she dissolved into tears again, covering her eyes with her hands. Draco hurried to wrap his arms around her shoulders, cupping the back of her head. He held her while she cried again, feeling the shaking of her shoulders as the sobs wracked her body._

_He'd do anything for her._

_When he felt the water start to run cold, he let go of her. She sniffled and wiped her eyes while he picked up the shampoo bottle. He didn't say anything as he began to massage it into her head, feeling the slickness of her curls as they slid through his fingers._

_How could he ever have hated her hair? It was gorgeous._

_Just like the rest of her._

_When her hair was properly conditioned and rinsed, he was the first to step out. The bathroom door was open, so he_ accio _ed his wand and used it to cast the most powerful drying spell on his sopping wet clothing that he could manage. Then, he grabbed one of the white hotel towels and held it open for her._

_Hermione held her arm over her breasts, suddenly modest as she stepped into the circle of his arms. She even let out a soft giggle as he mussed her hair with it, shaking her back and forth._

_Music._

_It felt important._

_Then, after she told him where her suitcase was, he helped her dress in her pyjamas._

_They climbed into bed as though it weren't a dream. As though they were on vacation in Paris in a hotel together, surrounded by hideous wallpaper and lying on a mattress that felt like a rock._

_The moment she burrowed her head into the crevice of his throat and shoulder, he didn't care about the comfort of the bed any longer._

" _Where were you? You weren't on the curb," she whispered. He heard it there—betrayal, sadness, and the_ _unspoken,_ I called for you.

" _I was outside the pub," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. One of his arms was around her back; the other hand traced up and down her forearm, which banded his waist. "I waited, but you guys never came out. Then, I went to the place where you and Weasley were supposed to be and waited forever, but didn't see you. I went to the alley and still, you weren't there. I figured . . . The dream didn't want me there."_

" _You promised."_

_His heart clenched. "I know."_

_She said nothing more._

_His guilt seeped into every inch of his body, carrying him into a sleep that he wanted to wake from so the nightmare could be over._


	22. Chapter 22

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty**

It was Tuesday, the fourth official day of holiday.

She wasn't in his lap when he woke on the couch, groggy and discombobulated. He'd felt her absence almost as acutely as he felt the guilt, still coursing like a river through his head.

If she blamed him for having to relive it again, he would understand.

When he went into the loo to shower, he checked the toilet. Just like when he was younger.

Narcissa's illness had been something that was hidden in plain sight. Lucius was too self-absorbed to notice anything, but Draco was attached to his mother. When he realized she was sneaking off to the kitchens for late night meals, he'd sneak down the stairs after her just to be near her. Narcissa would eat two, three, sometimes as many as five or six meals, use the bathroom between each one, and then make her way slowly back up the stairs. At first, Draco made sure he was back in his room before she did, so that he wouldn't get in trouble.

Draco didn't connect the meals to the loo usage until he was thirteen and she forgot a silencing spell.

He could still hear the sounds of her violet retching if he tried hard enough to remember. He wasn't an idiot—he knew his mother wasn't sick in the physical sense. She was _making_ herself sick, and even though he had no idea why, he knew that it wasn't something she was proud of.

After that, Draco would sneak past the kitchen entryway entirely. He'd sit on the floor against the wall behind the marble statue of his great-great-great-great grandfather and wait. He liked to think it was helpful, so she wouldn't have to be alone.

It was better than trying to figure out why his heart hurt whenever he heard the stairs creak on her way back up to bed. Much better than thinking about the fact that she never cleaned up after herself. When he asked a House Elf about it, they said they'd all been instructed not to—and Draco had realized it was because it was part of it, part of her rebellion.

Much better than thinking about how hard the floor was under his knees when he cleaned underneath the rim of the loo himself.

So when he lifted the lid after Hermione had been in the bathroom, he wasn't thinking about his hurting heart, how messy she might be, or the difference between the floors of the Manor and the floors of the Head dorms. He was thinking about how he was going to fix it all. He was thinking about how he could do better this time.

He was thinking about how he hadn't tried hard enough with Narcissa.

There we no blue flecks under the rim. It was as clean and white as porcelain should be. Either Draco was entirely wrong about Hermione's secret, or she was covering her tracks.

And he really, _really_ wasn't an idiot.

Draco wasn't exactly sure how to help her, but he knew he wasn't going to do anything in secret, behind closed doors like he did for his mother. If he was going to get involved, she was going to know it, and he wasn't going to stop until she was better.

Star bond or not, he wasn't going to watch her hurt herself for another fucking day.

After his shower, he dressed for the day in a light grey jumper that was a bit big on him, a pair of black denims, and then he ruffled his wet hair in the hopes that it would dry in some semblance of style. He looked at himself in the mirror for a second—at his rugged appearance and pale, tattooed skin—and wondered when he'd become so fucking wrecked.

She'd _wrecked_ him.

He wanted to cry at the thought that he not only hadn't been there for her last night, but had been standing idle while she destroyed herself. He was such a fucking failure. Why could he never do anything the right way, even when he was trying to do the right thing? He couldn't save Dumbledore. He couldn't save his father. He couldn't save his mother.

_How the fucking fuck am I supposed to save Hermione?_

He had a viscous desire to destroy himself, too. To feel the pain of glass shattering and his skin splitting, blood leaking down his fingers.

Fist clenched, he raised it, his face contorting with a combination of anger and self-hatred that he felt burning within him. He pulled his arm back, hesitating.

No.

That was the old Draco.

The new Draco had a lot to think about—a lot to take care of. Just like in the dream the night before, he had to keep in mind that the probability of him being star bonded to her was higher than maybe. It was almost fact. That meant that no matter what course their futures took, they'd be walking their paths together. He had a responsibility to her now.

The old Draco would have cried, hurt himself, and wanted to self-destruct.

Much calmer and more determined, Draco entered the kitchen to get some water and saw that the sink was empty. Frowning, he placed his hands on the edge of the counter and hung his head. It was already lunchtime and if the sink was empty, there were three possibilities.

Either she had washed her dishes this morning, she'd gone to the Great Hall, or she hadn't eaten at all.

* * *

Well, this was a good start.

She was sitting at the Gryffindor table for lunch, and there was a plate in front of her. When he entered the Great Hall—which was about one-quarter full as not everyone had left yet—he felt hesitant. Should he go to the Slytherin table as normal, where there were only a few younger students and Theo? Or should he take the risk and go to Gryffindor?

Choices, choices.

He headed to the right, striding towards the Gryffindor table.

Schooling his facial expression to be as indifferent and aloof as possible, he scoped it out. His gaze washed over the other students, seeing how different they were from his own House. In Slytherin, surprisingly, the older and younger years mingled, likely due to the way society life caused their families to know one another outside of school. However in Gryffindor, the students seemed to sit in chronological order, with the oldest students closest to the doors and the youngest closest to the professors' table.

Which made sense, he supposed, when he remembered the Weasley twins and the shenanigans they used to get up to. Sitting by the door made it easier to flee. And with how overzealous Hermione had been when they were kids, she _would_ want to sit as close to the authority figures as possible.

Now, she sat right on the end, even with all the empty space, with her back to the rest of the room.

Draco slid in on her right, staring off at the virtually-empty Hufflepuff table to try and make it seem like he was more interested in them than the fact that he was sitting down at the Gryffindor House table _._

He plated himself a sandwich and some sides.

Hermione, who had a book open on the table beside her very full plate, turned to stare at him. He ignored her and began to eat. The silence was so total and absolute that he felt like he was alone in the gargantuan room.

"What?" he said around a mouthful of bread, meat, and cheese.

"Did someone curse you, or are you lost?" Hermione replied. She held her place in her book with her hand.

At this, Draco rolled his head back and gave her a deadpan look. "I'm not under the Imperius, if that's what you mean. And no, I'm not lost. I'm exactly where I want to be."

She narrowed her eyes, searching his for whatever it was she was suspicious of, and then she frowned.

"Ron hasn't left yet—he's not leaving until the next train."

"Did you think I planned on coming over here when he did . . . ? I mean, come on." He scowled and took another bite of his sandwich.

Hermione glanced down the table towards the aforementioned wizard. When she turned back to Draco, she had a sour expression on her face. A sting afflicted his heart. He knew things were bound to be awkward after reliving the memory again, but he didn't think she'd be so revolted by being around him.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

He dropped the sandwich, snatching a napkin out of one of the stone holders on the table. He wiped his hands free of crumbs, the frown on his face so deep that her could feel his forehead wrinkling.

"What?" Hermione said. "I'm just surprised, is all."

"If you don't want me around you, it's fine," he said, pushing his plate away. "Just make sure you eat."

She didn't respond.

He started towards the Slytherin table.

"Wait."

He stopped and looked over his shoulder down at her. "Yeah?"

She was looking at him strangely, with a mixture of irritation and wariness dancing across her features. "Why do you say that? Why are you telling me to make sure I—why are you saying that?"

"Because I am," he said, his gaze washing over the other people around them. The Weaselbee was so absorbed in his breakfast that he hadn't even realized Draco was at the table.

Thank Salazar it was Winter holiday—otherwise the tables would be full and Draco never would have gotten away with sitting there.

"Why?" she said in response to him.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she said, lowering her voice as her brows came together on her forehead. "Since when do you care what I eat or when I do it?"

"Since I decided I did," he snapped. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at her again, hoping she could see the sincerity in his eyes when he did. For good measure, he leaned down. "I _want_ you to eat. All right?"

She opened her mouth, the sound of her words dying in her throat escaping her lips. The wariness and irritation now faded to something akin to confusion. Without saying anything further, she turned back to face her plate and book.

He sat down at the Slytherin table, keeping his distance from Theo and refusing to look in his direction. Instead, he plated himself another sandwich and set into it, watching Hermione from his place with the eyes of a hawk. Watching as she tried to go back to reading and not touching her plate.

Watching as she closed the book and stared at the plate for a solid five minutes, her leg bouncing as though she had too much energy and nowhere to expend it.

She picked up her sandwich.

Draco held his breath, the food on his own plate forgotten for the moment. Would she go through with it?

He saw her shoulders lift as she took a deep breath.

Draco's heart raced in his chest. It was as anticipatory as when he'd placed that apple in the cupboard in the Come and Go Room, knowing that not only his future, but the future of his mother and father's lives rested upon his shoulders.

And now, it was the same. If he and Hermione were truly bonded to one another, his destiny was intertwined with hers. He had to take care of her if she couldn't take care of herself, otherwise his future was in jeopardy.

Perhaps that wasn't the only reason he cared.

She took a bite of her sandwich.

Hermione took a bite of her sandwich and Draco didn't think he'd ever felt so fucking relieved in his entire life. For a moment, as he watched her scarf down the food, he wondered if he'd been overreacting the entire time. The emptiness left by his mother's death could have caused him to see things that weren't there.

For a moment, he thought she might be okay.

But she ate three more sandwiches, practically inhaling them as though they were liquid. He watched her finish the first, then move on to the second, third, and fourth without stopping for more than the occasional drink out of her cup. And when she got up to leave, she glanced in his direction. The expression she wore on her face was one he'd never seen on his mother's because Narcissa had had no idea that he knew.

Guilt.

He ran his hands down his face, trying to decide what to do. If nothing was wrong, he had no idea where she was headed to. If something _was_ wrong? She was going straight to the loo.

And he had no idea what to do next.

He sat there until the few students left in the castle began to trickle out of the Great Hall. Theo was the first to go, leaving right after Hermione, and he didn't look in Draco's direction.

He wondered if their friendship was over.

Draco went back to the common room, but she wasn't there.

That was odd, given that if she were going to make herself sick, it wouldn't make sense to do it anywhere other than their personal loo. In spite of the guilty look she'd given him, there was nothing to _prove_ that she wasn't well. Everything odd that he'd noticed about her this year—the long bathroom trips, the overeating, the mess, and the short temper—could all be explained by the simplicity of stress. She was an overachieving swot, after all.

Sitting down on the couch, he relaxed into it. He didn't know if it was because this year was exhausting, or if it was because he was on holiday.

Sleep claimed him within minutes.

* * *

" _I knew I'd find you here."_

_That was Hermione's voice._

_Was she waking him from his nap? Why did she sound so chipper? Earlier, she'd sounded so flat, so . . . Monotone. Draco's eyelids fluttered open to see a sky he knew as well as he knew the blue one in the real world._

_It was green._

_Hermione stood over him, swathed in white chiffon that floated around her thighs and fell off of her shoulders. Her hair was in hundreds of long braids that swung at her hips. She smiled at him, and it was the most genuine smile he'd seen from her in months._

" _What's going on?" he said._

" _Took you long enough to wake up," she said with a slight laugh. She clasped her hands behind her back and bit her lower lip, studying him. Then, she said, "Want to go play in the water?"_

_Draco sat up, feeling the light breeze coming from the west, ruffling his hair and her short skirt. He tried not to focus on the painful body size she'd imagined for herself, wishing there were some way he could imagine her differently. Healthier._

_Why was she_ so _fucking happy like this?_

" _In the water?" He grimaced. "Nah, that's not me."_

" _But it could be," she said, voice bright as she held her hand out to him. "Come, it'll be fun. Have you never done it before?"_

" _You think my father would have appreciated a Malfoy dancing on his toes in the ocean? I think not."_

" _But Lucius isn't here. I am." She tipped her head in the water's direction. "So . . . Let's go."_

_He eyed her, wanting so badly to sit and wallow in his troubles. His troubles that were also hers. Wanting to sit right there on the hill and talk about Paris._

_But she looked so happy._

_With a begrudging sigh, he reached up and took her hand. Her skin was warm to the touch, in direct contrast to how cold it should have been. It made his heart ache._

_And then they were running._

_She let out a high-pitched laugh and pulled him down the hill, running faster than he expected her to go. They headed across the field, crushing the white flowers underfoot as they made their way towards the beach. The closer they got, the easier it became for Draco to leave the hurt behind—the consternation and the worries and the negative feelings—and let go._

_Right as they reached the sand, a Devilish grin spread across his face. He let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her waist. She shrieked his name when he dragged her into the air, her feet clearing the divide between grass and sand, and her hands clutching his forearm. He heard her playful voice pleading with him to put her down, and he did._

_Another shriek, and then she was running again._

_This time, he chased her, and it was easy. It was easy to let go and live in the dream, to forget about everything else and just go flying after those braids and that beautiful girl. To pretend like they weren't Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. To act like they were just two eighteen-year-olds on the beach._

_When he caught up with her, they went careening into the water, falling into the crashing waves and laughing as they were both soaked to the bone. Every time they tried to get up, another wave would come, knocking them down again. It was even easier to laugh and smile, especially when he grabbed her around the waist again. He held her close as they tumbled beneath the surface of the salty water._

_Salazar._

_Even here, it ached to hold her._

_They came up for air, hair dripping and chests heaving, and grinned at one another._

" _See?" she said, panting. "Told you it would be fun."_

" _Yeah, well." He brushed his wet fringe out of his eyes. "You owe me for this."_

" _What could I possibly owe the_ great _Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune?" she said, leaning forward to gather her braids to one side of her head and twist the water out of them. He watched her, watched the way the moonlight glanced off of her sharp cheekbones, watched her lashes dusting her skin and the gentle curve of her smile._

_And she was beautiful._

" _Nothing I could afford if it weren't owed," he murmured, looking down into her eyes._

" _What's that mean?" she replied, looking perplexed._

" _Nothing. Come on."_

_He took her by the hand again, and they headed for the piece of driftwood that was always there as though positioned perfectly for someone to sit on it. As they walked, droplets of water clinging to his skin and sand sticking to the soles of his feet, he realized that he wasn't cold, either._

_They sat down on the wood, each of them wrapping their arms around their knees and gazing out to where the water kissed the sky._

" _Where are you?" Draco asked._

" _Huh?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glance in his direction. "I'm here."_

" _No—I mean out there. Where are you? You weren't in the dorm after lunch."_

_She averted her gaze, back out to the sea. "I'm in my bed. I was really tired after lunch."_

_Draco thought back to when he'd returned to the dorm. The loo hadn't been occupied._

_Either she wasn't making herself sick and he was fucking mental, or she was and she'd done it in the public restroom. But how had she gotten away with that without anyone coming in? He supposed there were spells, but it seemed like a lot of trouble when she could just use the loo in the dorm._

_But perhaps she_ had _used a public loo. Maybe she'd rushed straight there, done the deed, and then went back to the dorm because she wanted to sleep._

_Draco remembered his mother falling asleep at the kitchen table one night when he was fifteen. It was the Summer and he remembered it being especially warm that night. The sort of warm that made the skin underneath his arms prickle with sweat—the kind of heat that buzzed. It was late and she'd been in the kitchen almost as soon as the clock struck midnight._

_After her fourth trip to the loo, she had seemed lethargic and droopy-eyed, and had folded her arms to use as a pillow by her empty plate. She'd slept there for an hour while Draco watched from the doorway in fear and confusion. She'd awoken, of course, and hadn't caught him behind the statue because he was so quick on his feet._

_She'd swayed like a willow branch in the wind on her way back to bed._

_Was that what had happened to Hermione? Had she made herself sick and then grown so tired that she simply could not keep her eyes open?_

_Draco hadn't known the dangers back then, but now—now that Narcissa was gone—he did._

_He looked down at her, his legs shaking from the intensity of his emotions. He gritted his teeth against them, scrutinizing her and trying not to imagine what it would be like to have two women die in his arms._

" _Granger."_

_It took her a languorous moment to tear her eyes away from the sea. When they lifted to meet his, they were sparkling._

" _Hm?" she said._

" _If your heart feels tired . . . Will you promise to tell me?"_

_She appeared confused. "Okay."_

_He closed his eyes for a moment. It didn't feel any better._

" _Draco."_

" _Hm?"_

" _What do you see when you look at me?"_

_His heart skipped a beat, stuttering in his chest as it caught up with his mind. Something about the way she said the words—fear draped in innocent delivery—made him think she was looking for a specific answer._

" _I see . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Earlier this year, I would have said I saw a swot with a superiority complex."_

_She gave him a sharp look. "And now?"_

" _I see . . ." He met her eyes, searching deep down into them as he tried to sense what he could possibly say to assuage her. She wanted an answer. She wanted to know what he thought of her._

_Did his opinion matter?_

" _Ah, nevermind," she said, the sudden irritation in her voice shattering the spell. She dropped her chin to her folded arms. "It was a silly question."_

" _Silly? No—I was just thinking of what to say." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand._

" _It was silly."_

" _It really—"_

" _It was_ stupid _, all right?" she cried, glaring at the empty air in front of her. "I shouldn't be asking you questions like that. It's too much, too familiar. And what happens if we find out the bond isn't real, or that its reversible?" She looked crestfallen as she tilted her head up to the starlight. "We don't need to be getting familiar when without a bond, we're so . . . Unfamiliar."_

" _Hermione," he said, voice sharp enough to draw her gaze to his. He placed his hand on her shoulder, pretending not to notice the fact that he could feel her bones jutting into his skin when he did. "There's nothing wrong with making the best of what you've got. We wouldn't be able to walk each other's dreams if we weren't bonded, and you know that, so you might as well accept it. Accept what your life is. Accept that you're bonded to me in some way, shape, or form, and accept that it's okay for us to be familiar."_

" _Easy for you to say." She was stiff beneath his touch, and her jaw was tight._

" _What is?" he said, his anger rising a bit. "Thinking it's okay?"_

" _Practicing acceptance," she spat. "You accept what you've got and it doesn't overwhelm you. It doesn't feel like this—this giant ball of darkness, constantly hovering in the back of your mind." She reached up to touch the back of her head, her frown so deep that it looked carved. "If I accept any part of my life—_ including _this bond—I'm afraid I'll completely . . ."_

_She trailed off and if it weren't for the way her voice shook, he would have thought she hated the sand from how intently she glared at it._

" _I'm afraid I'll fall apart," she finished._

" _Why? You know who you are. You've always known who you were, which is more than I can say for myself. I didn't know who I was until the war. Why pretend like it's hard for you to figure it out now?"_

" _Because you're wrong." They looked at one another. "You're wrong about me. I_ don't _know who I am. I know who I am to the world—the Golden Girl, savior of the wizarding world, and brains behind the Golden Trio." The bitterness in her tone dripped like molten rock. "I know who I am to Harry and to Ron. I know what everyone sees when they look at me, and—"_

" _How do you know that?"_

" _What?" She appeared taken aback, like his interruption of her rant had thrown her for a loop._

" _How do you_ know _what everyone sees when they look at you?" Draco put his hands on the large driftwood surface beneath them, leaning back. He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. "Unless you're practicing Legilimency, you can't possibly know what they think."_

" _Yes, I can. They're my friends. I know exactly what they think about me."_

" _No, you can't." He raised his eyebrows. "You think you can_ because _they're your friends, and you're asking_ me _what I think of you because you don't know me as well. You can't read me like one of your books—not the way you can read your friends."_

" _And_ you _know_ me _?" Her breathing hitched, and he knew he'd hit a nerve. He knew because she jumped to her feet. "I suppose that's why I said it was_ stupid _of me to ask you that question, given I already know the answer!"_

_It took him a second to realize she was walking away._

_Draco scrambled to his feet, turning to watch as she slipped and stumbled across the loose grains._

" _You_ don't _know the answer, and that's the point, Granger!" he shouted, feeling his temper snap like a brittle, charred branch. "You can't know everything about everything, and you can't know what other people think of you, and—"_

_He cut himself off. Realization dawned so suddenly that it nearly bowled him over. Hermione kept stomping off, yelling things back at him that he could hardly hear but for the crashing of the waves against the beach._

_Draco took off after her, catching her right as she stepped onto the grass._

" _That's the problem, innit?" he asked, turning her to face him. "You like to tell yourself that you know what everyone's thinking of you because it gives you some sort of control over your life. But you know deep down that you can't—that any idea you have could be completely wrong at its foundation. They're your friends. They'll lie to you."_

" _That's not—"_

" _But I won't." He smiled, but it was out of sheer incredulity. Keeping his fingers wrapped tight around her upper arm, he pressed on. "I won't lie to you, because you so deeply believe I despise you that I have no reason to lie to you. You want to hear what I see because you think I'll tell you I see someone repulsive."_

_She said nothing, and the silence rang in his ears. But he could see it there—could see her faltering. Could see the resolve within them beginning to crumble and shatter and fold in on itself. Her chin tilted down toward her chest as the guard she worked so hard to keep up came down for him._

_Again._

" _I know you do," she said, voice soft. "And I want to hear you say it so I can feel right."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because I want to hear it."_

" _Hear what?!" he said, eyebrows shooting upward. "That you're repulsive?!"_

" _Aren't I?" she cried, and then she ripped her arm away from him. "Aren't I? I'm messy and I'm rude and I'm conceited. Oh, I'm so conceited. I completely and utterly think that I'm Godric's gift to the Earth, and I have always lived my life that way. I have_ always _walked the halls of Hogwarts thinking I'm the best witch in centuries, and when I would go home, I was the_ only _witch in centuries. I wanted to be the best because I_ am _the best, and I—I—"_

" _And you've been trying to prove that to everyone for the past seven years."_

_She looked up at him, her face pinched. She tried again and again to say something but had been rendered speechless._

_So he spoke for her, his hand sliding down to hold her elbow gently. He ducked his head down to hold her gaze before it fell to the ground again._

" _You've been trying to prove it to everyone, because you don't really think you're the best, do you?" Her chin quivered. "You think you're the worst. You think you're the absolute worst. And you think if anyone found out how awful a person you really were, that no one would want to talk to you or be your friend. Because if you really were the best person you could possibly be—the Golden Girl—you wouldn't have gotten attacked in that alley. You would have been able to handle it."_

_She turned her face away, but he shook her gently._

" _And you want to hear me say you're repulsive because the satisfaction hurts in the best sort of way—knowing that you were right, even when being right means you hate yourself."_

_She squeezed her eyes shut._

" _Sound about right?"_

_She opened her eyes again, tears swimming in them._

" _I'm tired of crying, Draco," she whispered. "I can't. Not here. Not here. It's supposed to be safe."_

_Draco gripped her other elbow. Her head fell back. A tear slid down her cheek._

" _It_ is _safe, Hermione. With me, you're always gonna be safe."_

_Her face screwed up as she fought them for another moment. Then, like a volcano, she erupted. The tears fell out of her the way they always seemed to do, and she buried her face in her hands. Her body, so frail in the dream world, was easy for him to pull against himself. He wrapped his arms around her, pain coursing through him when his fingers touched his own waist._

_Why was she doing this to herself?_

_Draco held Hermione while she wept. Again. And he would continue to do it again and again and again. As many times as it took her to cry all of the tears. Because now, as he stood here underneath an emerald green sky studded with the silver stars of his dreams, he knew that he wanted to be there the moment she ran out of tears to cry._

_He wanted to be the first one to see the way the smile finally reached her eyes._

" _I'm sorry," she said after a few minutes, extricating herself to wipe her eyes. "I just—can we just sit down?"_

" _All right. Back on the driftwood?"_

_She looked around, her gaze settling on the vast field with its flowers and shifting grass. "Let's lie in the flowers. I've always wanted to do that, and I don't want to wake up yet."_

* * *

_Draco followed her for a while, until she came to a place she seemed to like and collapsed to the Earth._

_Hermione laid on her back, so he followed suit, lying beside her. It was a soft beneath his back, and he felt the flowers around him tickling his face. Draco pulled his sleeves down over his hands and rested them behind his head._

_Above them stretched the stars for miles and miles. Lying here, trapped in a dream with the person he might be spending the rest of his life with, it felt like they were the only two people in the entire universe. They were small and insignificant. Their trials and tribulations meant nothing compared to the black holes that ate the cosmos, and the galaxies that swirled for eternity._

" _I've always liked looking at the stars," Hermione said in a muted tone. Her braids fanned out like a halo around her head and her hands rested on her stomach. One curved over her ribcage while the other was positioned over her belly. "I never felt a calling to Astronomy career-wise, but I've always loved the way the skies look when there's nothing else around. Nothing to pollute the light with shadows. It makes me think of when I was kid."_

" _Oh, yeah?"_

" _Yes, my—my father used to draw the curtains for me at night so I could fall asleep while I—like, looked at them you know." She rolled her head to look at him. "I memorized Orion's Belt the fastest."_

_Draco rolled his head to look at her, too. "Of course you did. It's the easiest one to spot."_

_She wrinkled her nose. "I know."_

_Half of his mouth curved upward, and they both looked back up at the sky again._

" _What about you?" she asked with a sigh. "What's Draco's favorite constellation? I think it's probably his own, given the fact that he's the most pompous wizard in all of Britain."_

" _Shut up," he said, cracking another half-smile. "And you like the simplest of them all—what does that say about you?"_

" _So, I was right! Draco_ is _your favorite constellation. How positively droll."_

" _No, Smart One," he snapped, resisting the urge to elbow her in the side. He didn't want to hurt her. "My favorite constellation is Scorpius."_

" _Hm," she hummed. "Why?"_

" _Because it's near the center of the Milky Way, and I like to be the center of everyone's attention."_

_They burst out laughing, sharing the joke amongst one another like old friends. Her laugh was musical, lilting like a unique song—a song he felt like he was hearing for the first time._

" _I've never liked being the center of attention," she said, her amusement slow to fade. "The Yule Ball was a nightmare for me. All that make-up, the fluffy fabrics. And the dancing."_

" _You don't like dancing?"_

" _Oh, Godric no," she groaned. "It's_ ghastly _. Viktor was an excellent dancer, but I was not. And I felt like everyone was watching me."_

_In Draco's mind, he saw periwinkle and the flickering of flame against the wall in the alcove. He felt her lips on his as if it were yesterday._

" _They were."_

" _They were what?"_

_Their eyes met again, as if on cue._

" _Watching you," he said. "Everyone was."_

_She arched one eyebrow, giving his face a once-over. "Even you?"_

" _Even me."_

_Her lips twisted and then she looked up again. "Well, I'd say that was my peak moment, then. The entire student body, watching me. Now, I've lost my looks. Whatever is a witch to do?"_

_Draco breathed a laugh. "Lost your looks? Oh, yes, because you were fourteen going on seventy-five. Wrinkling already."_

" _I don't look seventy," she muttered, "but I've certainly lost whatever looks I may have had."_

_His smile disappeared. "Wait, what?"_

" _I mean, I was never really that_ pretty _, per se, but whatever I did have is just—" she weaved a hand in the air above her, as though wiping the sky free of stars. "—gone."_

_He lifted himself onto his elbows. "Are you serious? Are you being serious right now?"_

" _Yes," she said. "I'm not blind, Draco. I know how ugly I am."_

_Draco thought he was going to pass out._

_What the ever-loving_ fuck _?_

" _Hermione," he spluttered. "You're not_ ugly _."_

" _Yes, I am!" she cried, moving her hands up to feel different parts of her face. "My forehead is too big. My nose is horrific the way it tilts the way it does. My skin looks awful—it's so dry and patchy. My lips are too—too pouty. Like, they turn down when I'm not smiling and it makes me look unapproachable. And my—around my jaw right here—is so puffy. And the underside of my chin is bloated and it—" She massaged the nonexistent flesh underneath her jaw. "—is too much. There's too much of it. It's like I don't even have a chin at all. It's no wonder you used to say I looked so hideous. You weren't_ wrong _. I just—" She held both hands over her stomach. "I feel like it's crawling inside of me."_

" _Whoa, whoa, whoa—" He tangled his fingers in his hair and sat up fully. "What the_ fuck _? What the_ actual _fuck?"_

" _What?"_

 _Draco felt his mind spinning, and he didn't know why. Of all the things he thought Hermione might think of herself, all of that . . . That_ nonsense _was not something he could have predicted. And it made him angry. Was she absolutely blind?_ None _of what she'd said was true!_

" _Hermione, you'd better not ever let me hear you say that shite again. I'm serious."_

 _She sat up. "_ What? _"_

" _All of that? Stupidest things I have_ ever _heard you say."_

" _Stupid." Hermione let out a mirthless laugh. "Right."_

_A spike of panic._

_He backtracked._

" _It's just that . . . You're_ not _ugly. And it's just—it's ridiculous that you think that about yourself. First of all, your forehead is balanced for your face shape. Your nose is unique and it's cute as fuck the way it tilts like that. Your skin being dry has nothing to do with the way you look, and it's_ just _skin. I happen to like the way your lips pout, and you know what?" He darted forward, slamming his lips against hers to prove a point. They smacked as he gave her a peck and straightened his back again. "They serve their purpose, so come off it."_

_She scoffed, holding the tips of her fingers to her lips. "That had nothing to do with the bond?"_

" _No. It didn't," he said through gritted teeth. In her face, he saw an openness that he hadn't seen before. Like he'd cracked a code and spread her open. Now that she was sitting here, susceptible to his words and his opinions, he felt like words he'd been holding in were spilling out of him._

" _And another thing—I'm not gonna tell you that you repulse me just to satisfy some sick, twisted voice in your head that's telling you do. Does it tell you that you're ugly? Well, you're not. Does it say your forehead is too big, or your nose is weird? It's wrong. You're fucking beautiful, Hermione. Do you get that? You're fucking beautiful to me, and I won't let you use me to convince yourself otherwise._

" _So, to answer your stupid bloody question: I see_ you _. When I look at you, I just see you. And I always have." He felt like he was sinking into the flowers, but it was the most honest he'd ever been in his entire life. "Forget whatever I said when I was younger. I was the one who was stupid. And after Third Year, you meant something to me, I just didn't know what."_

" _Just stop," she said, ripping out a clump of white gardenias and tossing them aside. Her expression had soured. "Stop lying. I get that things are different now, but you don't need to lie."_

_Draco's head was on its way to implosion. He was so sure in that moment that he was going to throttle her that it scared him. His head snapped to look down at her and she flinched—perhaps terrified of the same thing._

" _Have you gone absolutely fucking_ mental _?!" he shouted._

 _Her eyes flashed in the greenish glow from the sky. "I can recognize that you think that, but I don't see it! When I look in the mirror, I don't see anything I like, so why should I pretend I do just to make a man feel comfortable? Why do I have to care about everyone else's comfort all the time?!" Her voice rose higher, growing into more of a whine as she went. "What about_ me _? Why's it so bad when I admit that I'm not_ _comfortable with who I am or the way I look? Why can't I just say I think I'm ugly to the person I trust without him getting_ angry _with me?!"_

_Draco blinked._

_Wait._

" _You trust me?"_

" _Yes, so why don't you just let me think I'm ugly and get over it!"_

_A silence stretched thick and electric between them. The absurdity of her words hit them at the same time._

_They began to laugh. Their laughter intensified every time their eyes met, until there were tears streaming down Hermione's face again. Until Draco's stomach hurt from laughing so hard. Until Hermione was fanning herself from howling._

_Until Draco's heart wanted to burst from how much he liked to hear her laugh._

" _You're not ugly," he said, a bit breathless. "You can think it all you want, but I won't."_

_Her eyes twinkled and her smile was small. It was small, but it was present. That mattered to him._

_It was there._

_Suddenly, she perked up with a gasp._

" _Do you want to roll down one of the hills?"_

" _Huh?"_

" _Did you do_ nothing _fun growing up? Come on!"_

_She got up and took off like a loose hex, dashing towards the nearest hill. He sighed and followed her, no longer sure if he entirely liked Hermione when she was happy. She was too fond of exercise._

_He'd had fun when he was growing up, but not the sort he probably should have._

_When they got to the top of the hill, she laid down horizontally, gesturing for him to follow suit. After she explained to him what to do, he laid down, stretching out with his head near her feet. Like she'd told him to, he crossed his arms over his chest._

" _Ready?" she said, excitement woven through her voice like golden thread. "On the count of three. One . . . Two . . . Go!"_

_Draco and Hermione rolled at the same time, letting gravity pull them down the hill like wayward logs. Over and over and over, Draco's body rolled. His stomach flipped and his head spun and it was the most fun he'd had in ages. It felt like he was floating. He heard Hermione shrieking with delight, felt his own heart leaping up towards the stars that flickered in his vision every time he rolled upright, and he laughed again._

_When they finally came to a stop in a thick smattering of gardenias, they laid there to catch their breath. He felt her foot pressing into the top of his shoulder, but he was too exhausted to move. Once again, they looked up at the stars._

" _Draco," she said, "do you remember what we do together here in our dreams?"_

" _Yeah," he said, his voice rough from how loud he'd been laughing._

" _Because you never say anything about it when we wake up. Like, I get worried it doesn't mean anything to you."_

" _I could never forget anything I do with you."_

_And he meant that._

" _But does it mean anything to you?" she said. "Do I . . . Do I mean anything to you?"_

_Draco's brow furrowed and he closed his eyes. His mind went white as he lost himself to his thoughts and the feeling of his heart pounding back to a normal rate. His chest rose and fell, ribcage expanding with the circumference of his lungs._

_He breathed._

_It was because he could lie beside her and just_ breathe _that he knew she meant something to him._

" _Are you listening to me?" she said, her voice sounding faraway. "It feels like you're not listening to me. Are you—"_

" _Granger."_

_She stopped mid-sentence. He pushed himself to sit up, turning to look at her over his shoulder. His gaze washed over her appearance—her braids splayed out across the white petals, his lips parted as she continued to catch her breath, her eyes half-lidded from this vantage point, and the way her hands rested beside her head as though she'd thrown them there._

_He was stricken._

" _What?" she said._

_Draco rolled so he was on all fours. Without removing his eyes from hers, he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her downward with her hands still by her head. She gasped but didn't move to stop him. Her eyes tracked his movements as he hesitantly placed his left hand beside her right hand in the grass. His left knee brushed her waist as he hovered partially over her._

" _What?" she said again, her head pulling back as much as it could in the grass._

_He grabbed her chin with his right hand, holding her head in place. Slowly, gaze flickering up and down from her eyes to her lips—those pouty lips he liked so much—he lowered his head. The fingers of his left hand curled into the grass right as their lips touched. He felt her sucking her breath in._

_His eyelids fluttered closed._

_When he pulled back, she looked like she'd forgotten how to breathe._

" _I'd dream forever if you were here with me,"_

_He kissed her again and it ignited a flame between them._

_Draco felt his heart lurching forward, rising to meet hers as her hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer. She kissed him with a tentative mouth, in direct juxtaposition to the hungry way her hands grasped for him. Swinging his knee over until he was straddling her, looming over her in a way that felt protective due to the sheer difference in their sizes, he felt his stomach twisting into a tight, desperate knot. His hand drifted from her chin down to the column of her throat, resting there with a light touch and a finger tapping a silent tune against her pulse._

_Hermione's back arched._

_He turned his head and deepened a kiss that already felt as deep as his dreams would allow him to go. His tongue slipped between her pliant lips, tasting the inside of her mouth like it was the first time. Sensuality drove him onward, urging him to kiss her harder. Deeper. Faster. Until their bodies were pressed together in the grass, undulating like the waves of the sea. He heard a small feminine sound in the back of her throat and it sent his mind whirling through celestial spaces._

_The sounds she made._

_Draco's hands drifted down the sides of her waist, one gripping her hip and pinning her down while the other hand curved around the back of her bare thigh. Even in dreams, her skin was as soft as the gardenia petals they were now laying in. He pulled her leg up against his own hip and ground against her center. It was bold and it was unnecessary and it felt good._

_After what they'd just had to endure again, it was selfish and it was wrong._

_He froze._

_But she moaned._

_She moaned into his mouth, where he devoured the sound and renewed the vigor of his kiss. His fingers dug into the flesh on her thigh as his lips trailed across her cheek to the spot that made her cry out the loudest. They grazed her earlobe and he felt her shuddering beneath him, her hands twisting in the fabric of his jumper. Her face fell to the side, exposing the entire side of her head to him._

_He attacked her with teeth and tongue, his heart pounding as desire pulsed through his veins. Her panting grew heavier, punctuated by more small moans, and then he sucked at the skin beneath her earlobe. Hard._

"Oh— _my God."_

_She cried out, strangled and echoing. Her hips jerked, and then began to rock, canting up to press harder against his. Draco wrapped some of her braids around his hand, letting go of her thigh so he could keep her right where he wanted her._

_Because this was his dream, and here, she was his._

" _That feel good?" he murmured, nose brushing her jaw. "Hm? Does it feel good when I kiss you?"_

" _Yes," she gasped when his tongue laved over her pulse and his lips pressed to the wet skin. "It's so good. It's—"_

_She broke off with another choked noise when he paid more attention to her pulse than either of them could handle. Her body writhed beneath him, her hands seeming confused—like they couldn't decide between pushing against his chest and curling into the hair at the base of his head. And when she gave that hair a sharp tug, a chill rippled down his spine and caused his eyes to roll._

" _Fuck," he half-breathed, half-laughed. It felt good, to feel her heat rising to meet him where he wanted her the most. It felt like they were dancing the only sort of dance he liked to do. "I want you so fucking bad."_

_His hips moved to meet hers, as though they weren't completely clothed in a flower field beneath a sky made of dreams. He covered her throat again, squeezing slightly as he kissed along her shoulder. The strap of her dress fell down. The taste of her skin stretched across her collarbone was divine._

_She hooked her leg around the back of his thigh, her foot dragging down to the crease of his knee and using it to anchor herself and she drove her hips up harder. It distracted him from kissing her, and he tore the grass out in his haste to put his left hand on her hip. He was going to stop her—to slow her down before things got too out of hand, even here—but then she whimpered._

" _It—it feels so r-real, Draco. Oh, Godric—it feels so—so real."_

_The words fell from her lips like pleas._

_She was pleading with him._

_His stomach twisted tight, clenching so hard that he thought he might cry. He had to hold himself back. No matter what, he couldn't go too far with her. He couldn't. It would hurt her. It was too soon. She wasn't thinking clearly, and neither was he._

_It was the bond. It had to be the bond. It was—_

_He felt her core through the fabric of her knickers and his trousers. He felt it as though it were wrapped around him. A jolt of something unexplainable rocketed through him as she tightened her leg around his, practically holding him in place while she ground against the same spot over and over and over and over._

— _so fucking good._

_She was breathing words out, the whispers falling from her lips as though the stars themselves were raining down around them. He looked at her face for a brief moment—at her beautiful face—and saw the desperation there. Like something from another universe altogether._

_Nothing existed outside of this place._

_His lips claimed hers again. They snogged as though they were just two teenagers with way too many hormones. Bodies writhing and rolling, holding each other tight enough to meld their bones together. He was so hard it ached. She was so close she was keening. It was absurd and it was nonsensical._

_It was everything._

" _Hermione, look at me," he groaned, hovering above her with his forearm flat on the ground to put enough distance between their faces. The movement of her lower body stuttered as she cracked her eyes open and took a shaky breath. "No—don't stop. Just look at me."_

_She immediately resumed her movements, but now that he could see into her eyes, he could feel her trepidation. It floated around them, heavy as fog._

" _It's just a dream," he murmured, voice gentle. "Okay? It's just a dream."_

_Her hips found the spot again—the one that made her whine—and she relocated her earlier rhythm. Her breathing grew heavier, causing their chests to meet when she inhaled._

" _You want me to touch you?" he murmured, his lips near her ear. "You won't have to work as hard."_

_She swallowed, and he heard it. "On the . . . Outside."_

" _Yeah?" He reached over to push his sleeve up to his elbow. He saw her gaze flit over his tattoos._

" _Yes. It's just a dream."_

_He kissed her pulse, tasting her heartbeat as his fingers crept underneath the hem of her white dress. Her breathing hitched once again and stayed suspended. The closer he drew to her, the more her back arched toward him. She exhaled in a groan the moment his touch found her center, touching her over her knickers._

_They were soaked through._

" _Fuck," he cursed again, and then he pressed harder against her softness. "_ Fuck _, you're so wet for me, you know that?"_

_Her answer was a sweet, stammering moan._

_Draco found the apex of her core through the fabric, feeling her nerves as easily as though they were awake. Her leg, which was still by his right hip, fell open and laid flat on the grass. Her body went limp beneath him as he played with her, never once straying beneath her knickers._

" _You like it slower or faster?" he whispered, voice hoarse as he looked down to watch what he was doing. "Huh? Tell me. Tell me so I can make you come."_

_Her fingers dug into the back of his neck._

" _Faster," she replied, "but gentler."_

" _Like this?"_

" _I—_ oh _—yes! Yes, there! Like that!"_

 _She threw her head back, her upper back completely lifting off of the ground and Draco touched her exactly the way she liked. She was so wet—beyond wet—and Salazar,_ fuck _did he want her. He wanted all of her for the rest of eternity, right here, right beneath the stars. And good Godric, if he could make her come undone just like this—just fucking like this—he would lose it._

" _Come on," he growled between light kisses to the hollow of her exposed throat. "Come on, you can do it. That's it, grind down. Grind down."_

_Her face screwed up and her body went rigid. He looked up at her through his lashes as she moved her hips to follow his instructions. No matter how gentle he was, she moved her hips harder. He knew better than to switch anything up now._

_Not when she was so close._

" _Draco," she squeaked out. "Draco—I can't—I'm going to—"_

" _Yeah?"_

" _Please," she groaned, her head so far back that he could hardly see her face anymore. "Please, please, please, please—Oh, Jesus Christ."_

_He knew enough from Muggle Studies to know who Jesus was._

_Hermione shattered for him moments later, her muscles convulsing and a series of tapered moans singing out into the night air when she did._

" _That's right," he growled. "Good girl. That's it, come for me just like that."_

_She whimpered. Her legs closed around his body as the sensations overwhelmed her, but he kept touching her until she couldn't take it anymore. She reached between them and wrapped her hand around his wrist._

_She opened her eyes and the moment he looked into them, he broke. Draco covered her lips with his own in a kiss that was ten times more frenzied than the last. Dream or otherwise, he would never be able to get the image of her face when she came out of his mind. He would never stop cherishing that sort of trust. After everything that had happened to her, she'd felt safe enough with him to let him touch part of her like that._

_Something felt off._

_She gasped. The colors were fading. Green to grey. Always grey._

_He heard something—a new sound. Was it coming from the beach?_

_Draco lifted his head and glanced behind him, placing his hands on either side of her in the flowers to keep himself upright. He felt her hands slipping beneath his jumper, feeling the bare skin on his abdomen._

_Nothing but the waves crashing._

"Draco."

_He turned back to her, seeing the way the stars burned in her eyes. They kissed again, just as frenetic with need as before, but this time, it didn't feel right._

_It didn't feel real anymore._

"It's just a dream."

_It felt like a dream._

_There it was again. The sound._

_He pulled away and looked behind him. The sea was there, a tidal wave hundreds of kilometers high rearing up over them. Panic exploded in his chest as the ocean began to arch downwards. He looked down, not knowing how to protect her._

_She was gone._

_The water crashed over him._

* * *

Draco woke.

He could hear a scraping sound in the kitchenette. There was an ache in his neck from having fallen asleep on the couch sitting upright. The lights on the bare Christmas tree provided hardly enough illumination for him to see by, the curtain having been drawn shut on what was already a dark grey snow day. He was so tired that he was contemplating drifting off again.

The sound came again, and his eyes snapped back open.

"Is that you?" he called.

"Yes," she said. "I'm making a snack."

He groaned and stretched. Getting to his feet, he ambled over to the light.

Sure enough, it was Hermione, and she was standing at the stove. There was a pot of noodles in some sort of red sauce on the burner, and she was stirring it with a wooden spatula. She'd changed into an oversized hooded jumper colored white, and she wore the hood up over her unruly curls. Her legs were clad in pink trackies and her eyes looked tired.

"No wand?" he asked, leaning against the wall. "You know you could charm that to stir itself."

"It's okay," she mumbled. "Did you sleep well?"

"I suppose. Did you?"

"I napped," she said, and he saw her cast him a sidelong glance.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 2. We only slept for an hour or so."

"Ah."

He wondered if she wanted to talk about the dream. What if that's all it was, was a dream? What if all the heartfelt things they'd shared, the things they'd talked about, weren't real? What if it was all a figment of his imagination?

How terrifying.

A yawn escaped him.

"Well, it appears I'm still right fucking knackered," he mumbled.

"So, go back to sleep," she said, her tone somewhat clipped. He looked at her sharply, but she continued to talk. "I'll wake you for dinner."

"All right." He pushed away from the wall, eyeing her for a second more. Did she remember?

She looked up at him from under the hood, lips pouty and eyes wide. "What?"

"Nothing." Then, he lifted his chin. He knew one way to see if she remembered anything about the dream. "You just look beautiful."

She stared at him like a doe for a second and then she ducked her head down to focus on stirring the boiling noodles. "Is that the bond talking, or is it you?"

"Does it matter?"

". . . Yes."

He turned to go.

"We can't know everything, remember?" she said, and he stopped walking. "That's the hard part of accepting our lots in life."

She remembered.

"Yeah," he said, his heart fluttering like butterfly wings. "Practicing acceptance. It's hard, but it doesn't have to be lonely. So, if I tell you I think you look beautiful, don't question where it comes from. Just accept the compliment."

He heard her scoff and start to speak, but he interrupted her.

"Even if you think I'm lying."

He went to his room and collapsed in bed fully clothed. Whatever happened in the dream, he'd deal with it all later. Right now, he just wanted to sleep.

Maybe he could dream of her the normal way this time.

* * *

Draco woke for the third time that day.

His bedroom was even darker than before he fell back to sleep, and he was groggier than Hell. His head pounded, throbbing with a dull ache. His stomach rumbled, curling in his hunger. He sat up, swinging his feet to place them flat on the floor.

He hadn't dreamt of anything at all, which was surprising for him. Even before Hermione could enter his dreams, he always dreamed of something. Of _her_.

And he'd been hoping for a glimpse of her smile again.

Draco glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for supper, and good Salazar, was he starved. He felt the dismay he felt when he woke up too early for his wand alarm, but not early enough to go back to sleep. He was exhausted after nights of such vivid dreams, and if it weren't for how hungry he was, he'd just go back to sleep.

He was going to sit with Hermione at dinner, he'd decided. Even if they couldn't talk frankly about the dream or the Paris memory at the table, he was hoping she'd open up to him if she spent more time with him. They needed to discuss it so they could figure out how to avoid it next time, if there even _was_ a next time.

But first, he needed to use the loo.

Draco crossed the hallway, releasing one final yawn of sleepiness as he went. He combed his fingers through his hair and opened the door.

His heart leapt up into his throat.

"Oh—fuck," he said. "I didn't know you were . . ."

He trailed off.

It was occupied by someone who'd either forgotten to lock the door, or who'd thought she didn't need to.

She should have locked the door.

Hermione was in the loo, on the linoleum floor worshipping a god made of porcelain. She was on her knees with her forearm braced along the seat. The fore, middle, ring, _and_ pinkie fingers on her right hand were sliding out of her mouth.

Covered in vomit.

It was on her chin, smeared across her lips and the lower halves of her cheeks. It had clumped beneath her nails. It riddled her fingers and the back of her hand. Red sauce and chunks of noodles dripping down her bare arm—which was exposed because she'd rolled her sleeve up—and into a toilet full of her sick. The entire room reeked of acid and pasta.

His mind flashed to the fear that had plagued him for years—the fear that had kept him staying up night after night on the stairs. The fear that pushed him to hide behind the statue outside the kitchen at the Manor.

Was this what his mother had looked like?

"I'm sorry," Hermione gasped out, and then she coughed. Looking mortified, she drew the back of her clean hand across her mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Tears of panic and anxiety stung at his eyes and without a word to her, he turned and headed for the portrait.

* * *

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	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: heavier than normal trigger warning on this chapter! For ED talk.**

* * *

**Apricity - Chapter Twenty-One**

He was angry.

Draco knew he shouldn't be—he didn't want to be—but he was.

It was the sort of anger that started like a tiny flame in his chest, growing hotter and brighter the more the scene that ignited it replayed. As he stormed down the corridor with no direction other than away in mind, he felt the flames licking along his limbs and scorching his fingers. He could feel his magic crackling in and out of every pore on his body, so powerful that it felt overwhelming. Like there was nowhere to go and no one to turn to to get reprieve.

The last time he felt this angry, he was trapped in Paris.

That scared him.

In a haze of red, he found himself outside in the courtyard, taking deep breaths of the crisp Winter air. It was so quiet that it was maddening.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, dragging them up and through his hair as he paced back and forth in front of one of the Grecian stone pillars.

Why was she doing this? Why did it have to be _him_? Why couldn't the universe or whoever had linked them together have chosen some other witch for him to be connected to?

Draco was tired of being given burdens that he simply couldn't handle. He cared too much, but wasn't strong enough to fix anything. He never _had_ been strong enough to accomplish anything. To _save_ anything. To save _anyone_.

He couldn't save Headmaster Dumbledore.

Couldn't save his godfather.

Couldn't save his mother.

He wasn't going to be able to save Hermione.

Godric, _fuck_ , he was going to lose it.

With a loud cry of frustration, Draco slammed his clenched fist into a cracked part of the pillar. He felt the skin splitting, protesting in agony as it peeled away from his muscle and began to leak blood. It painted his fingers with his ire.

Draco shook his hand out, watching the fluid stain his black knuckle tattoos red, and fought against the ache in his throat. He couldn't stop his mind from projecting the horrific image of her on her knees in that bathroom, covered in sick and apologizing like she'd done the worst possible thing she could do.

He didn't know how to tell her—to—to _show_ her that she hadn't done anything wrong to _him_. She was just hurting herself, and if she kept on hurting herself, she'd end up just like his mother.

He didn't want that, and it had nothing to do with the possibility of a bond.

"Draco?"

Draco's shoulders jumped and he looked over his shoulder.

Theo stood there, hands tucked underneath his arms against the cold. He was beneath the archway of the castle entrance, like he didn't want to venture too far. Which made sense, since it was freezing.

"Oh, fuck. It's you." Draco pulled his wand out of his pocket and healed himself, and then he turned to face him. "Scared me."

Theo's lips quirked, but there was a wariness in his eyes. "You always did scare easily."

Draco snorted. A shiver rippled through him, but he didn't move. It felt like his feet had been sewn to the ground, roots winding their way deep into the Earth between the stones. He wasn't quite sure how to interact with Theo, as things had been so tense between them for the past month.

"What did the pillar do?" Theo asked after a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"You punched it. What did it do to you?"

Draco rubbed the back of his neck with Winter-numb fingers. "Nothing, for now. But in this castle, you never know. Bloody thing's alive."

"Yeah," Theo said with a breathy laugh. He crossed his arms tighter. "But I know you well enough to know it's not the pillar."

"No," Draco said. "It's not the pillar."

It was silent for a minute or so. Draco clenched his teeth against their need to chatter, and resisted the urge to pull out his wand and cast a warming charm. If Theo wasn't going to warm himself, then neither was he.

But Salazar, did Draco want to talk about it with someone.

"It's Granger," he said, biting his lip and averting his gaze to the far side of the courtyard. He felt like he could still see Potter dashing past the pillars over there, shooting hexes at the Dark Lord over his shoulder.

In many ways, the war had yet to leave the castle.

"What about her?" Theo's eyes narrowed a fraction and just like that, the tension pulled taut. He took a nonchalant step toward him, descending one step.

Draco's gaze returned to him. "She's just surprised me with something, is all."

"Surprised you?" Theo descended another step. "Surprised you in what way?"

Draco opened his mouth, but his own pride wrenched the words back. He didn't want to tell him. It felt like handing something extremely valuable over, even though Theo was supposed to be his best mate. He didn't know what sort of friendship Hermione had with Theo, but he didn't think Theo should be privy to this.

Why was he so bent on keeping the information to himself?

_Because she's mine._

"Surprised you in what _way_?" Theo repeated, a curtness entering his tone that made Draco forget all about the cold.

Draco straightened his spine so that he towered over Theo even from a distance.

"She's a witch that's full of surprises," he drawled. "It can be infuriating."

Theo arched one eyebrow. "Infuriating enough to punch a pillar?"

"Yeah."

Theo nodded slowly. "Well, witches aren't all as easy as you paint them to be. Some have a bit more value than you've previously placed upon them."

Draco's anger spiked. What was _that_ supposed to mean?

"Granger's not easy, no," he said. "Anyway, I've got to get back to my dorm. It's cold as fuck out here."

Theo said nothing as Draco walked past him, heading up the stairs. The tension was so thick that Draco could hardly breathe. And the moment he passed him, even though there were multiple inches between them, it felt like they had brushed against one another.

"Remember what I said before?" Theo said, inciting Draco to stop without turning to face him. "In Hogsmeade?"

"We've been to Hogsmeade loads of times," Draco said, his head rolling to look back at him. "Which words in particular?"

"It was the last time we went," he replied. "I told you witches—"

"Deserved nice things, yeah." Draco waved his hand. "What about it?"

Theo had turned to face him now. "It doesn't always have to be about gifts. Sometimes, the things they need aren't solid. Sometimes, they need a friend."

"Okay?" Draco said slowly. "And we're both friends with her."

"If that means her friends need to discuss her well-being, then that's what it means." Theo turned to face his back.

"There's nothing to discuss." Draco faced him, too, looking down his nose at him.

"Just like there was nothing to discuss this Summer when we were all on trial?"

Draco cursed under his breath. "I told you I didn't have the energy to write to you—"

"And what about your mother? We never discussed that, either—I had to find out from _The Prophet_."

Draco felt his heart exploding in his chest, the simultaneous reminder of his mother's demise and anger over Theo obviously challenging him overwhelming him.

Theo was trying to manipulate him into telling him what had happened with Hermione.

Without a word, Draco turned and headed back into the castle. From behind him came Theo's voice calling after him.

"She needs someone who will be the person to do anything, say anything, or be anything to make her happy. Don't act like you can be that wizard when you can't even take care of yourself."

Draco stopped, his fists clenching at his sides. He whirled around, his face contorted with rage. He moved back towards Theo, who's eyes widened. The shorter wizard staggered backward in fear.

"Don't act like you know _anything_ about her," Draco snarled, leering down at Theo with all the vehemence he could muster. "What do the two of you do together? Study? Are you the one she comes to at night when she can't sleep? Are you the one who knows what it's like to watch her break into pieces? No. You _don't_ know what it's like to be the only person that can keep her together when she's falling apart. I don't need to take care of myself—I need to take care of _her_."

Too much.

He'd said too much.

There were gears turning in Theo's eyes as he searched his, trying to make sense of what Draco had just said. Gears that showed Draco he'd said way more than he'd meant to or should have.

"Just—stay the fuck out of our relationship, Theo," Draco spat, walking backwards while glaring at him. He pointed at him. "And stay the fuck away from Granger."

Theo's expression was unreadable as Draco held his gaze, then turned and stormed around the corner leading back to the Head dorms. It felt like they'd just played a game of Quidditch.

Draco couldn't tell who won.

* * *

In spite of the argument with Theo, Draco felt strong enough to return to the common room.

He and Hermione weren't in a _relationship_ , but there was something deep stretching like a void between them. Something that he knew there was no possible way that Theo could traverse. Theo could theorize all he wanted.

Hermione would never belong to him.

As he neared the portrait, he found himself looking into the wizened eyes of Dumbledore. He seemed to be only a bit interested in the book painted into his hands, and was watching Draco over the top of his glasses. He wore much the same gentle, imploring look he'd given Draco on his final night atop the Astronomy Tower.

He could almost hear his voice.

" _I shall make it easy for you."_

Draco looked away from the portrait, rubbing his fingers along his jawline. When he looked back at the portrait again, Dumbledore was still watching him.

" _Years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please let me help you."_

Draco knew the real reason why he'd failed to save all those people—why he'd let his mother die—and he wasn't going to make the same mistakes again. Instead of fear, he would steep himself in anger and determination, and he would use it to save her. He would fix everything. Like sunlight on the snow, he would melt her down so her flowers could show through and bloom again.

He would make her better.

Draco set his jaw.

" _Apricus_ ," he said.

Dumbledore smiled. The portrait swung open. Draco stepped into the darkness.

The Christmas lights were on, the little floating decorations that Hermione had set up weeks ago zipping about in response to him entering the common room. It was quiet—quieter even than it had been outside—but warm. The fireplace had sprung to life at some point, giving off the crackling heat he needed to get the feeling back into his fingers.

Hermione sat on the edge of the couch, chewing her thumbnail, and staring into the flames. At the sound of the portrait clicking against the outside wall, her head whipped around. Their eyes met.

She leapt to her feet.

Draco's gaze swept her form. She was wearing one of his dark jumpers with the hood up, and it dwarfed her small frame. Her legs were clad in pyjama trousers and her feet were ensconced in socks. Her hair hung in limp curls, damp from a shower.

"You left your door open," she said, her voice cracking on a whisper. "I was overwhelmed. I just . . ."

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and cocked his head to the side, waiting.

She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands in front of her.

"I wanted to be close to you."

Draco's heart fluttered and he coughed, gazing to the left, at the tree. It was ringed in lights, but still held no decorations.

How could she say things like that and still want to reverse the bond?

"Why don't you get your little—whatevers." He gestured to the tree with a lazy hand. "We're gonna get this shite done and talk."

"You mean . . ." Her face brightened a bit, though not as much as it had in their shared dreams. "Decorate the—"

"Yeah. Hurry up, before I change my mind."

Hermione blinked and then went back to her room. She emerged from within it with her wand. When she returned to the living room, she stood near the fireplace and conjured up a box just like the one in their dream. Draco stood on the other side of it, watching as she knelt down and pulled open the flaps. Inside were plenty of ornaments for them to decorate with. With another wave of her wand, she set a charm that would make the ornaments float into the air one after the other so they wouldn't have to keep crouching.

"Are you sure you don't want to charm them all onto the tree?" she asked, sounding cautious. She wouldn't make eye contact with him.

"Yeah," he said, plucking an ornament out of the air and hanging it onto the tree. "You said it was something you used to do with your family, and I said we would do it in real life, too."

She nodded, but to Draco, it looked like she was trying to hide her smile.

They decorated for a while. Draco remained silent, sifting through his mind for the right direction to take the conversation. The fact remained that they needed to discuss what he'd walked in on, but they had all night. There really was no reason for them to jump right in—they could ease into it.

Besides, they had something else serious to talk about.

"So," he said, clearing his throat, "about last night . . . We should figure out what it meant."

"Like . . . For us?"

Draco shot her a look, perturbed. This was the second time she'd said something that alluded to a connection between them. A connection that didn't seem to take into account a dissolution of the star bond.

But she wasn't wrong.

"The fact that you—that you feel things when you're in my dreams, and that I feel things when I'm in yours is something we should discuss," he said, focusing on the tree. "Especially given that I never was able to connect with you in any sort of way before this month."

"What do _you_ think it meant?" She looked up at him. "In regards to the bond, I mean."

"I think . . ." He tipped his head back. It took all of his energy to keep his mind from going back to what they'd done in the dream. "I think the bond is getting stronger, somehow. In some way. I think it's definitely within the realm of possibility to say that we're both at the third level."

"The Consummation."

Their fingers brushed in midair as they reached for the same ornament floating above the box. Their gazes locked, and in the golden glow of the firelight, she looked nothing like the pitiful girl he'd seen on the floor in front of the loo.

He wished she could see how beautiful she was.

"Yeah," he said, letting her have the ornament so he could grab another one. "That means if we're gonna try to figure out how to dissolve the bond, then we need to be careful."

"How careful?"

Something shifted in his stomach, twisting to an unbearable coil. He gazed at her sidelong as he wrapped the wire of an ornament around part of a branch so it wouldn't fall off.

"Careful," he said. "No more getting carried away in dreams—we don't know if what happens inside of them carries over when it comes to the bond."

She rose on tip-toe again, and the hood fell back, exposing her drying curls. "But doesn't it feel . . . Overwhelming for you?"

"For me?" He shrugged. "I mean, what do you mean? Are you saying it feels overwhelming for _you_?"

"I'm saying we should try to figure out what could cause our levels to be different. If you're feeling what I'm feeling, then we're both on the same level. If you're not—if you're in actuality on the second—then that means somehow I've surpassed you."

Draco frowned. "Well . . . What are the levels based on?"

"The star bond book that I ordered says it's based on feelings—emotions." They looked at one another, and he could see trepidation shining in her eyes. "The person who feels the strongest gets intertwined faster."

And it made sense that Draco would have taken years to get to the third level. He'd thought he hated her. He'd had a strange crush on her that ever since that night in Hogsmeade—when she'd cried in front of him and Theo—had turned to fancy. He'd thought he hated her, and now he didn't.

But that meant that Hermione had developed feelings for him. Fast.

"Well, I guess that solves that," he said, trying to be as clinical as possible. "I felt something for you first, which is why I had the dreams for so long. It grew slowly, and then I moved from the first to the second level. You had your Awakening at some point this year, and then slipped into the Draw quicker than I did for whatever reason—"

"Because I didn't hate you like you hated me."

He looked at her. ". . . You didn't?"

"I've never hated you." She hung an ornament. "I felt sad for you, but I never hated you. I didn't _fancy_ you until this year."

Ah, that was unfamiliar. Pity. Not many people had showed that to him in his eighteen years of being alive.

Wait.

_She fancies me?_

"I think," she went on while studying a glittering red orb in her hand, "that means that if you hadn't felt like you hated me for so long, then perhaps you would have slipped into the second or third level way before now. From what I'm gleaning, it seems like the lack of being on the same page could have posed a problem for matches back when the wizarding world was using star bonds to align marriages. The feelings have to be there, or the bond won't work properly. Imagine if we hadn't ever interacted—we would have been connected forever, always felt incomplete, and one day died at the same time without ever knowing why."

"Romantic," he said in a sarcasm-heavy voice.

She let out a laugh and hung the ornament on the tree. "I suppose."

He couldn't believe they were talking about having feelings for one another while decorating a Christmas tree as though they were discussing an essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Judging by what she was saying, they only had two choices: stay together and consummate the bond, or figure out how to reverse it.

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but she was already talking, hanging ornaments on the tree again.

"So," she said, raising up to hang more ornaments near the top, "we shouldn't beat around the bush. I'm sorry that you saw what you saw. I wasn't thinking clearly and I forgot to lock the door."

Draco stared at her.

Was she really going to act like he'd simply walked in on her using the loo?

"Why?" he said, voice flat.

"Why, what?"

"Why do you do that to yourself?" He ran his fingers through his messy hair. "Why do you make yourself sick?"

"It's not about why," she said.

"What do you mean, it's not about why?" he asked, frowning again. "Of course it's about why. I just asked you why you do it."

"And I can't answer you," she said. "It's too hard to explain."

"Why is it hard to explain? You don't just eat your food and throw it up for no reason." Draco could feel his anger flaring to life again. "Is it about the way you look, because you look—"

"Stop," she said, giving him a bit of a wild-eyed look. "Don't talk about my body. I don't like that."

"Okay," he said, dragging the word out. "Then what's the problem?"

"I can't just _tell you_ what the problem is!" she cried, spinning to face him in a fan of long curls. She didn't look angry—just irritated. "When I say it's not that simple, I mean it's not that simple. It's not about the way I look—it's about changing it because I can."

He searched her eyes, his gaze bouncing back and forth. "Losing weight?"

"It's just a method. A—A result. Something I can manage. A symptom."

"All right."

"Think of my mindset like a virus," she said with a sigh, turning to hang some smaller ornaments on the tree. "Like a common virus with symptoms, and the symptoms are what present on the outside. You can't physically _see_ the actual virus. The problem is that I don't know who I am and I never have, and the stress I'm constantly under just— _piles_ up and becomes too—" She gestured to her chest. "Too much. And then I have to get rid of it so that more can pile up. Otherwise I feel like I'm going to explode. I just don't like feeling full."

"And that translates to food?" Draco scratched the back of his head.

"Yes," she said, sounding exasperated. "Can you put the star on the tree?"

"Yeah." He plucked it out of the air and set it on top of the tree with ease. "And that translates to food _how_?"

"I don't know how. It's just a feeling I have." She began to pace. "I never really got the chance to figure out who I wanted to be, and I was already wrapped up in the war. I mean, I never even figured out what I wanted to do for a career—I didn't _think_ about anything. I was just so focused on the world around me that I didn't—it's stupid."

Draco didn't think it was, but she seemed frazzled. He put his hands on his hips, looking at the tree without really seeing it.

"But how do you go from feeling stressed out to suddenly making yourself sick? We all feel stressed out ninety percent of the time this year, but we don't all do that," he said. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Because my first time wasn't this year, Draco!" she said, throwing one hand up. "The—"

"Don't . . . _Yell_ at me," he said in a soft, dangerous tone, holding her gaze. She had no idea how angry he was, and how hard he was working to hold it at bay. "Just talk to me."

"Fine. Sorry." She scowled and he saw her pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over the ends of her hands. "The first time I threw up was in Fifth Year. It was on accident—I was really worried about how we were going to balance exams with the DA. It was Christmas, and I—I dunno—I just kept eating. I ate until it hurt, and it made me nauseous. I ended up getting sick in the loo and my parents laughed because they knew I was eating way too much. But I had this weirdly . . . Empty feeling afterward. And my head felt fuzzy."

Draco watched as she stopped pacing and faced the fireplace.

"It was the first time I didn't feel worried about anything. Harry, the Dark Lord, the DA . . . Even exams. I hadn't been able to relax all holiday. My mother was irritated with me because I kept messing up the sugar cookies. I couldn't—couldn't seem to get the cutters to work properly. But after I got rid of it, it was easier to focus and I was able to help her finish." She stared at the flames, her voice growing wistful. "I never forgot that feeling. In Sixth Year, we ate dinner late because of the funeral. You wouldn't remember—you weren't there."

He felt an arrows guilt lance through his heart, but he remained silent.

She looked over her shoulder and up at him. "I was just so sad and scared and anxious about the fact that Harry was so lost in his head. I knew—I just _knew_ he wasn't going to come back. I _knew_ everything was going to change. I didn't _want_ it to change. And I made myself sick after dinner that night so I could feel empty for j-just—" Her voice broke and she hugged herself. "I just wanted it all to go away for a bit, just like at Christmas."

"Did you keep doing it after that?" he asked, thinking of the many years his mother had engaged in the same behaviors.

"Sometimes. When we were traveling during Seventh Year, I didn't really do it until Ron left. I—"

"He _left_?"

"Yes," she said in a bitter tone. "It's not important, but yes. He left and then came back. We took him back."

Something in her voice told Draco her words went deeper than they implied.

"But while he was gone, I would sometimes make myself sick after dinner if I felt like I couldn't focus on what we were working on. It felt like I didn't have room for all three—the Horcruxes, Ron, and the food. One had to go."

Draco sighed. He didn't need to ask her why she was so sick this year—he knew now very well what the catalyst for that was. Things were making a bit more sense, but they seemed so convoluted.

How was he supposed to help her when he had no idea how to detangle the threads she was weaving?

"You talk about it like you understand it," he said.

"I _do_ understand it."

"Then why are you still sick?"

Her head pulled back on her shoulders. "That's not—I don't—Draco, I can't even explain to you how triggering that is."

"What is 'triggering'?" He crossed his arms. "What does 'triggering' mean?"

She turned to face him, her back to the fire. "It means it's upsetting to me."

"Upsetting how?"

"It means it makes me want to throw up, okay?" The annoyance was written on her face like a manifesto. "It's like you're saying it's my fault I'm like this, when I feel so out of control all the time. Believe me, if other methods of stress management worked, I'd be doing those. Just because I understand what's wrong with me, doesn't mean I should automatically be cured."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense!" she snapped. "And frankly, I don't care if you understand it, or not! The point of this conversation wasn't to cure me of anything. I was simply apologizing for you seeing it. I'll make sure to lock the door next time, even when I think you're sleeping."

Draco could feel red tinging the corners of his vision. Did she think he was daft?

"You actually think I'm just going to _let_ you go back to doing it?" he said, glaring down at her. "Have you gone fucking mental?!"

"You're not gonna _let_ me do anything, Draco!" she shouted, and he actually took a step back. "It's not up to you what _I_ do with _my_ body. And if it's a matter of me doing it in the loo, then I'll do it elsewhere. Don't start thinking you get to tell me what to do."

Draco steepled his fingers in front of him. "It's not that I'm trying to tell you what to do. I'm trying to help you."

"You can't help me!" she cried. "I don't want your bloody help!"

Draco saw red.

"Don't _fucking_ yell at me!" he roared, causing her to shrink back, closer to the fire. "I don't care if you want my help—I'm not just going to turn a blind eye while you waste away to nothing, you infuriating little—" He gritted his teeth. " _Witch._ I'm trying to help you because I understand."

"You couldn't possibly—"

"I understand more than anyone else," he spat, cutting her off. He turned away, towards the tree as the grief started to turn rancid in his stomach again. "So just believe me when I say I only want to help you."

"How could you possibly understand?!" She moved into his peripheral vision, her arms crossed. "How?"

He opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue.

He'd never talked about his mother aloud. He'd never cried in front of anyone about it. He'd attended the funeral for her with dry eyes and a somber disposition. He'd given her obituary to the _Prophet_ without so much as a frown.

But he'd never told anyone her secret.

It felt like a betrayal.

"I just do, all right?" he said, looking down into her eyes and willing her to believe him. "I want to help you, and I'm not trying to control you. I realize that I can't stop you from doing it—but if you're gonna do it, I'd rather you do it where you're safe."

Surprise registered in her eyes as he walked past her, heading for his room.

"That's it? You don't—"

"Just sit down," he said, feeling exhausted. "Sit on the couch."

He heard the cushions shift as she did. "But where are you going?"

"If we're gonna talk about this," he muttered, "then I'm getting fucking blazed."


	24. Chapter 24

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Two**

Draco sat down in the armchair, sinking low and stretching his legs out.

He didn't need to sit so far away from her, but it felt safer to talk this way. Especially given that he'd brought a freshly rolled joint back out with him and if he was already going to smoke in the common room, he didn't need to be blowing it into her face. He'd gone to his room to get what he needed and change into his usual trackies and a black tee shirt, and he wanted to relax, not cause issues.

Hermione had taken her slippers off and was now sitting on the far side of the couch, her knees tucked up into his jumper and her hands clasped to her chest. She was staring at the tree, and Draco could see the lights glittering in the reflection of her irises.

" _I wanted to be close to you."_

Draco wished it wasn't just because of the bond. He wanted to be close to her, too.

"If you're gonna do that in here," he said, "then there needs to be some rules."

" _Rules_?" she spluttered, looking over at him from underneath the hood. "You said you weren't going to control me!"

"I'm not." He put the joint between his lips and lit it with the tip of his wand, then set the wand on arm of the chair. He took a drag, held the hot smoke in his lungs, and then blew it out with a cough. "But this is a shared space, and in a shared space, there should be a set number of rules that all parties living within should follow. That's fair, innit?"

". . . Yes," she muttered. "But I have to agree to them, because it's my choice what I do with my body."

"I know, Granger."

"All right. So, what are they?"

Draco took another drag on the joint while he thought to himself. He weighed the way things were with Hermione against the way things were with his mother, and wondered if maybe he wasn't making a huge mistake.

What if it was _his_ fault his mother had died? What if him watching over her from afar, cleaning up after her, and hiding her secret was what had ultimately killed her? He didn't even know how making yourself sick could kill you, but if that was what had caused his mother's death—what if Draco contributed to Hermione's?

But she was a Gryffindor. She was strong and proud, and she was going to do whatever she wanted to do, no matter what he wanted.

"First of all, you leave the door open when you do it. If you don't leave it open, I want you to tell me before you're gonna be sick."

She stared at him in horror.

"Don't look at me like that," he said around a third drag. He could feel the calm of the high settling over him, easing his heartbeat and muscular tension. "If you want to be able to do that without me interfering, then you either tell me before you make yourself sick, or you leave that door _wide_ open. I'm not going to make this easy for you. And what if something happens? How am I supposed to know to help you if I have no idea what's going on in the loo? I could think you're dead and walk in on you in the shower, or you could _be_ dead and I wouldn't find you for hours."

"I'm not doing that. I'm not _announcing_ it to you, nor am I leaving the door open. You've lost your damn mind."

"Then you're not throwing up in here, and I'm going to McGonagall."

"You wouldn't. She'd never believe you, anyway."

"You don't have many options here, Granger," he said, tapping the ashes onto the carpet and then vanishing them with wandless magic. "You either play by my rules, or you can play by McGonagall's."

"Or I could just do it in the public loo." She gave him a look that bordered on smug.

"Have fun doing that—if you do it anywhere other than here, I'm going to McGonagall."

Hermione looked like she wanted to throttle him. "Fine. I'll tell you before I do it, but I'm _not_ leaving the door open."

"Fine. Your choice, as long as you pick one."

"It _is_ my choice," she mumbled. "What's the next rule?"

Draco rested his head back against the back of the chair, staring up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. Whatever strain this was, Blaise had done a great job.

"No overeating by yourself. If you're gonna eat all those Muggle snacks, you can do it with me."

"I have to _eat_ with you?!" she practically shrieked. "Draco, sometimes I don't eat breakfast or lunch—sometimes I eat between mealtimes. How am I supposed to eat if we're in—in _class_ or something? Am I just supposed to _starve_?"

"Isn't that what you're _doing_?" He sneered.

" _No_! It's not—you don't _understand_. It's one thing to eat and get rid of it—at least then I can trick my brain into thinking I ate. If I don't get to eat at _all_ , it feels like _torture_!"

"Granger, come _off_ it. You stuffed the packaging into the couch to hide it from me. That's stupid. I'm not saying you can't eat—I'm just saying you can't eat it _alone_."

"But what if you're asleep and I'm hungry?" Her tone was challenging. "Can I still eat it if I tell you in the morning?"

Draco couldn't lift his head—he was too high. He just looked at her from under his lashes, speaking to her in a hoarse voice. "If you make yourself sick at night and _die,_ it defeats the purpose of the first rule."

She sighed heavily and then threw up one hand. " _Fine_! Fine. I'll eat with you." Then, her eyebrows shot up. "But you have to sit with me at _every_ meal—including in the Great Hall."

Draco took a fourth drag on his joint. "Can't you accept the rules without trying to make compromises?"

Her face remained unchanged. "I'll agree to the second rule if you agree to always sit at the Gryffindor table, or save a seat for me at Slytherin."

Draco could see it now—the absolute sheer pandemonium that would ensue and the rumors that would spread—and he didn't mind it. But that wasn't the issue.

The issue was that Hermione wasn't understanding how important these rules were.

"Third rule," he said without answering her, "is that if you go to Hogsmeade, you can't make yourself sick at all. None of that 'going to the loo three times and ordering multiple meals' shite like you did with the Weaselbee."

"Oh, so I can't go to Hogsmeade now?" she snarled, crawling across the couch to the side closest to him. "You think you can tell me where I can _go_?!"

"No, you _can_. You just can't make yourself sick if you eat at the Three Broomsticks. You can either take it to go, or eat it and keep it down."

"That's not fair!"

"It's plenty fair. You ran into a table last time, Granger, because you were faint from doing it so many times. I may not understand how it all works in there—" He gestured to his entire body. "—but I know it can't be good if you're running into things. So, if you're gonna throw up everything you eat, you need to keep it to the castle. Hogsmeade is off limits."

She let out a growl. "You're a _complete nightmare_! It's the _Winter_. Any food I take to go will just get cold, even with a stasis charm."

"I guess you'd better keep it to the castle then."

She was silent, but he could feel her fuming from where he sat. He took a drag on his joint while she thought to herself, and he held the smoke in his chest for as long as he could. He coughed a couple of times, feeling his high intensifying.

"I hate you so much right now," she said, "but fine. I'll agree to that. Hogsmeade is off limits."

"You can _go_ there—you just can't _throw up_ there."

" _Whatever_ , arsehole!"

"Don't be a bitch," he said, closing his eyes for a moment. His head felt light. "I'm not the bad guy."

"And I'm not the bad person, either!"

"I didn't say you were. The issue isn't you _or_ me. The issue is your 'virus'."

She paused and then grumbled, "Anything else, _master_?"

"Shut the fuck up," he said, trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of what she'd just called him. "Don't call me that."

" _Anything else_?"

"Yeah, one more." His eyelids fluttered open and his head lolled to the side as he gave her a lazy look. "If you feel anything amiss—and I mean _anything_ —you come to me. Don't hide it or keep it inside. If you feel faint, tell me. Or—or give me a look across a room. Something. Anything."

She opened her mouth, and he could tell she was trying to find something she could say to control the rule like she had the other three. But then, he saw her brow furrow. He didn't know if she'd pieced anything about his mother together or not, and he hoped she didn't bring it up if she had.

"I will," Hermione finally said, and she tousled her curls back. "If you promise to come running."

He looked at her, and she looked at him, their eyes meeting with something that showed Draco she wasn't as tough as she was pretending to be. She didn't want the rules because they scared her. She was strong and she was proud, but she was scared.

"Always," he said softly.

He glanced at the tree again, taking in the sight of the glitter and twinkling lights. He supposed now he could see why she was so adamant about decorating the tree. It had been pretty in his dream, but in real life, it looked ten times better. He'd seen plenty of House Elf-decorated trees in the Manor while growing up, but it felt different looking at one that he'd decorated with his own two hands.

Draco wondered what Christmas would have been like this year if his mother had lived. Would they have decorated a tree themselves, since all the House Elves had been dismissed by the Ministry? Would they have visited with his father and shared some sort of dessert across a metal table in a room made of stone?

Would his mother have eaten until she was too full and made herself sick like she had the previous years? Would she wait until dark, or would she do it at midday since Lucius was gone?

So many questions. So many painful questions. Questions that tugged at his heart and stung at his eyes.

He wished he could explain it all to Hermione so she could just . . . _Know_ why the rules were important. But when he thought about telling her—about betraying the only secret his mother had taken to the grave—it made him feel ill. It tied his throat shut and suffocated him.

Huh.

That was odd.

It almost felt like . . .

The storm was back.

He blinked a few times, holding the heels of his palms over his eyes as he felt his head spinning behind closed eyelids. He could feel the clouds rising up in his chest, expanding there and making him feel like he was floating. Either he was extremely high, or he was—

"How careful?"

Draco dropped one hand to the right arm of his chair, and his left hand slid up into his hair. "What?"

Hermione was leaning over the arm of the couch a bit, on her knees with her hands propping her up. There was a strange look in her eyes. Rather, it was familiar because he'd seen it before. It was just strange to see it while he was awake, and even stranger to see that she was leaning far enough to put her head above his.

"How . . . Careful?" she repeated, and the crackle of the fire in the hearth was louder than her voice.

Oh.

He looked up at her, his gaze flitting up and down her face as he took it in. "More careful than if we were in a dream."

"Why?"

"Because," he said. She was looking at him so intently that it unsettled him. "It's too easy to lose control in a dream, and the fact that you and I can interact and remember it makes me think it's more real than it seems. But in real life—"

"You're in control."

He scrutinized her for a moment longer while he took another drag, feeling the grey storm raging within him, his emotions even more muted than usual because he was high. Then, it clicked.

"Are you feeling it, too?" he asked.

She averted her eyes for a moment, and then she nodded.

"It's unbearable. Like, it hurts."

"It hurts?" he said, his eyebrows lifting.

Another nod from her. "It's hard to explain. But it's like a storm for you, right? Well, turn it into a hurricane. It's just so much that it hurts. I don't know if it's the bond, or if I just . . ." She looked down and then met his eyes again. "Or if I just want you."

He felt his stomach twisting, but he schooled his features into nonchalance. He wished she wasn't on her hands and knees like that. It made her back arch, even in his jumper.

Damn it.

The last thing he wanted to do was give into the star bond when they'd been through a nightmare together twice. What if she wasn't thinking clearly?

But he was in control.

He was in control, and he would never hurt her.

And she said she was in pain.

"So, you think it'll help if we just . . ." He looked her up and down. "Mess around a little bit?"

Even in the dimly lit living room and with her bronze skin tone, he could tell she was blushing. She had to be—there was too much body heat coming from her.

"I think so," she said. "Yes."

"Are you ready for something like that? After everything?"

She pursed her lips. "To be honest, I'm not sure. Part of me wonders if I'm ever going to be able to be normal and just . . . Do the things I want to do. But another part of me knows it's the bond."

"Granger . . ."

"Another part of me just likes you," she said, looking directly down into his eyes. "And that part of me knows you would never hurt me. You would stop if I asked you to, wouldn't you?"

Draco's heart leapt, but he remained as calm as possible. His lips quirked up into a half smile, and he spoke to her out of the corner of his mouth.

"I'd do anything you asked me to."

"Then . . . I know what I'm feeling right now." She sat back on her knees on the couch, facing him. "I know what I'm feeling, and it's confusing and overwhelming. It's the star bond, yet it's also me wanting to see if I'm ready. Me knowing that you're the only person I feel safe enough to try try it with."

"You realize you're all over the place, right? It _is_ the bond—there's no way that what happened in the dream last night was anything other than that," he protested. "You might regret it."

"Right now, you're the only person I trust with my body, Draco," she said in a quiet voice, not looking at him. "And I feel so . . . Dirty. After this Summer. For feeling this way. I just want to feel clean again."

"You're overexplaining," he said, still relaxed in the chair. "You're valid, but you're overexplaining."

"It's not that." She shook her head, a deep frown settling onto her face. "I'm making excuses because I'm . . . Scared. What we did in the dream—I liked it. Every time Ronald tried to touch me like that, I felt unclean and—and wrong. But when you touched me, it felt right. Normal. I didn't seize up and feel afraid."

Draco was quiet. A different version of himself would have thought she was acting so strange. It was normal to be attracted to people, and normal to want to snog them or do more with them. And here she was, analyzing and discussing and convincing.

But he knew the truth.

She was scared that there was something wrong with her.

"Never mind," she said. "It was stupid. Dreams are different than—"

"Just come here, you silly bint," he murmured, holding his hand out to her, palm-side up. "Stop overthinking everything."

With a somewhat shy expression, Hermione placed her hand in his. Her skin wasn't as soft as it had been in his dream, but he didn't mind. He wished she didn't feel so cold—it worried him.

His mother's hands had always felt cold, too.

She stood up from the couch, and he tugged on her, pulling her over to him. She stumbled slightly, and then she was standing between his legs. His half-smoked joint in his other hand, he maintained eye contact with her and pulled.

Her knees landed on the cushion, between his, and her hands curved over his shoulders to steady herself. While she was still visibly reeling, he reached up to push her hair behind her ear. His heart pounded, but the marijuana in his system kept him from dwelling on the way things had escalated, and the fact that they were very awake and not in the Library where they had an excuse to stop.

The only interruptions would come from them.

He held the joint to his lips and inhaled. She watched him.

"You want some?" he said in a smoke-strained voice as he held it in his chest.

She eyed the joint warily. He coughed and blew the smoke out to the left.

"I'll put it out."

"No!" she said quickly, and then to his surprise, she straddled him, her knees slotting between his thighs and the arms of the chair. She settled on his lap. "I want to try, but I don't know if I can actually . . ."

Draco raised one eyebrow. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

His heart warmed.

"Okay. Just . . . Okay. Remember to part your lips and inhale."

"Huh?"

"Just—remember."

Once again, he put the joint to his lips and inhaled, pulling in as much as he possibly could. Then, he grabbed the curls at the back of her head, his fingernails scraping lightly along her scalp as he did so. He pulled her down closer to him, tilting his chin upward so that their lips brushed together. He felt her body tense up, but she tightened her hold on his shoulders. Her lips parted one moment after his did, and then he exhaled.

She breathed in.

The smoke exited Draco's chest and she inhaled as much of it as she was able to. When their lips broke apart, she began to cough weakly. He couldn't help but laugh, especially when she held the back of her hand over her mouth and let out an uncharacteristic giggle.

"Well?" he said.

"Can we do it again?"

His lips curled up.

"Good girl. You learn fast."

After another drag and breath share, he could see by the catlike grin on her face and her lidded eyes that she was already high. He wasn't surprised, given her weight and the fact that it was probably her first time. The occasional breathless laughs that left her lips at silent jokes she was sharing with herself proved it.

As Draco finished off the last of the joint, Hermione's hands roamed his upper body. She stroked his forearms, arms, chest, even his neck. He felt his skin prickling in the wake of her touch, felt it going straight through his body, but he held himself together.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Getting comfortable," she replied, her fingers fluttering along his neck tattoos. "Just in case."

"Just in case what?" He vanished the expired joint.

"Just in case the bond can't be reversed."

Well, that was something.

"So you think it's a for sure thing?" he asked.

Her gaze snapped to his. "Do you?"

"I think it is," he said, his hands hovering over her hips. He wasn't sure if he should touch them, but it was getting difficult to ignore the way she felt pressed up against him.

"So do I," she said. "In fact, I'm certain of it." She ran the forefingers of both hands down the center of his chest. Because they were so cold, he felt it through the fabric. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Whatever makes you more comfortable."

Draco felt Hermione's fingers traversing his body again, this time going slowly as they pressed into every nook and crevice on his torso. The buzz that sang through his veins seemed to hum in response to her, coming alive every time her fingertips came into contact with his shirt. Still relaxed in the chair, he let his head fall back into the cushion and he closed his eyes.

He hadn't been touched in so long.

Hermione's hands found their way to his face, where she seemed to inspect it like she was looking for injuries. She tugged at his ears, pushed up the tip of his nose, and squeezed his cheeks. His eyelids fluttered open right as her thumbs pulled his lower lashlines down.

"What are you—" He burst out laughing, batting her hand away. "What are you even _doing_?"

"I'm getting comfortable!" she said, grinning. "I might have to look at this face for the rest of eternity. I might as well do a preliminary inspection."

"A _preliminary in_ —"

He slipped his arms around her waist because he laughed so hard she almost fell off of his lap.

Draco straightened his spine, sitting up. He tilted his head back and gazed up into her eyes, watching the way they sparkled even with the Christmas lights behind her. It was just like in the dream, when they were running across grass smattered with white gardenias.

The smile reached her eyes.

His hands slid up the center of her back as he lifted his chin to press his lips against hers. It took a moment of consistent pressure before she was kissing him back, her body molding to fit the contours of his. He felt her hands cupping his cheeks, her fingertips playing in the long hair that wisped against his ears. He fought a pleasant shiver.

He'd kissed her before in waking and in dreams, but he knew without a doubt which he preferred.

The heat of her body. The softness of her mouth. The way she seemed to burrow into his arms as though it was the safest place to be. He felt needed like he never had before.

If kissing her always felt like this, he'd take eternity over dreams any day.

Draco's stomach curled in tighter and tighter, until he had to part his lips to take a breath. The moment he did, Hermione slipped her tentative tongue into his mouth and caressed his. He curled his hands into fists in the fabric of the jumper she wore, feeling the ridges of her ribs beneath the fabric.

Every single one.

He almost stopped kissing her because he felt so sad.

Hermione tilted her head to the side and kissed him deep—as though she were searching for something. Draco didn't stand a chance against the tidal wave that crashed over him, pulling him under just like the dream had. He panted, trying to gain his bearings in the sea, but it was like trying to breathe beneath the surface. It filled his lungs and suffocated him.

In a move that seemed experimental, she rolled her hips downward. He felt her core grinding against him, the heat of their bodies mingling and the temperature in the room seeming to intensify. Draco lost himself to the sensation of her on top of him, his fingers sliding up higher until one hand got lost in her curls and the other traveled around to the underside of her chin.

She broke the kiss, their lips millimeters apart, and their eyelids fluttered open at the same time.

Her hips rolled again.

Draco moved forward to kiss her again, his lips slamming into hers with fervent desire. His hands roamed her body—her face, her shoulders, her arms, her waist. They slipped beneath the hem of his jumper to curl around her outer thighs, dragging her as close as he could. She couldn't so much as shift her body without grinding their lower bodies against one another's again.

Gasping, he kissed a line down the side of her throat, relishing in the way her hips jerked when his tongue lapped at her skin to trace the path. He suckled at the tender junction of her jaw, right beneath her ear, and her head fell to the side with a soft sigh. Soft and just for him—just like her.

It felt like he held an entire galaxy in his hands.

"Do you want to stop?" he breathed into her ear.

Her hands came to rest on his chest. "No. I want to keep going."

He kissed her ear and this time, when her hips jolted, he gripped her hipbones. Taking control, he moved her backward and forward. She gasped again.

"Tell me what you feel," he murmured, his gaze falling to where their bodies touched.

"I can—" She let out a strangled sound, like a breath constricted by lack of oxygen. "I c-can feel you . . . Getting h-hard."

Fuck.

The fact that this was real—that this wasn't a dream—and she wouldn't let anyone else do this—

_Fuck._

"Yeah?" he said, his nose brushing hers. He breathed her air. "Then you know how bad I want to be inside you, don't you?"

"Y-Yes," she whimpered, and then she placed a hand on the base of his throat, right over his tattoos. "And you know . . . How wet I'm g-getting."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, yeah?"

She bit her lower lip and nodded.

"You're getting wet for me?" he drawled, his blood rushing South. He smirked.

"For—yes, for you."

The shy way she stumbled over the words in that sweet voice of hers.

It was so cute. It was just so fucking cute.

Draco cursed below his breath, almost powerless to stop his own hips from rolling upward. The moment they did, he felt her begin to rotate. Quick, undulating circles as she arched her lower back to put the apex of her core directly against the hardness that had grown.

"Touch me," she said, the words falling on the wake of her breaths. "Please, Draco."

"Are you—are you sure?" His hands remained on her hips.

"Yes. Before I change my mind."

Draco moved his hands up to her waist as slowly as possible, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitancy. He didn't know if they should be doing this, but she seemed so adamant in the way she—

Hermione took one hand off of his cheek, reached beneath the jumper, and placed it over his. She moved his hand up to her breast, a bold look on her face as she formed his palm to fit over the small mound. She wasn't wearing a brassiere, and there was an eroticism in that that made him want to groan.

She held him there for a moment and then let go. Her hand returned to his face.

"I said touch me," she whispered, and then she kissed him again.

He didn't know if it was her bravery or the fact that it was her—he was more turned on than he ever had been in his entire life. He moaned into her mouth, breathy and certain, and began to squeeze and knead her flesh. Her back arched again, bringing her chest closer to him, pushing her skin into his.

Another twist of his stomach.

This was surreal. It was like a dream in and of itself, nevermind the fact that he knew they could fall asleep and still find each other. His thoughts were spinning and reeling, thinking about everything they'd been through, and how different things were now, and how much he liked her.

He _liked_ her.

He liked her more than he should, and it didn't make any sense.

Draco rolled the peak of her breast between his forefinger and thumb, gentle yet insistent, until she broke the kiss and buried her face in the crook of his neck. He repeated the movement, never lessening the pressure, and she stifled her cries with her lips against his pulse.

His other hand—still on her hip—swirled circles in the dip of her pelvis. She ground down harder, moved back and forth faster.

The fire continued to crackle in the hearth.

Draco's other hand moved inward, his thumb still pressing those gentle circles. He crept closer and closer to her core. When he reached it, he turned his hand so that he could stroke her there where the fabric was wet, pressing circles into a new place.

It was everything.

He turned his head, burying his face in her curls and listening to the way her breath hitched when he did. Godric, she smelled so lovely.

"Want me to make you come like this?" he breathed, his hand massaging her slowly in time to the rolling of her hips.

"No," she said. He started to pull his hand away, but she reached between them to grab his wrist. Without lifting her head from where it was buried, she spoke in a muffled, weak tone. "I want you to touch me for real."

"Underneath your trousers?"

"Yeah," she said, her hips still rocking against his fingers. "Beneath my knickers."

Draco hesitated for a moment.

What if she wasn't ready? What if she regretted this?

Did she forget who he was?

Hermione's grip on his wrist tightened and she began to move his hand upward again, pinning his fingers to the waistband of her leggings. Her head lifted and she pressed her forehead against his. Her eyes were closed and he could feel her shaking.

"If you're frightened," he whispered, his hands stilled on her breast and on her lower abdomen, "then we can stop."

"I'm not frightened," she said, shaking her head. She kissed him, a brief brush of their lips. "I'm not frightened of you."

He wanted to tell her she should be. He wanted to tell her he was the wrong person for her to be doing this with, and the wrong wizard to be bonded to. However sitting there, looking deep into her eyes and seeing the trust that had somehow cultivated between them, all he could think about was the way it had felt to wash her in the shower. To know that in that moment, he was the only thing holding her up and that without him, she was alone.

In some ways, this was the same situation.

"Don't move," he breathed, and his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her leggings and her knickers. He felt the soft curls there, his fingertips sliding over them, and then he was touching her.

He was _touching_ her.

"Don't move," he begged when he felt her hips startling at his touch.

She bit her lip against a sigh, but her hips continued to rock. The movements were ever-so-slight, and he felt them. The back of his hand passed over his hardness, and the sheer willpower it took to keep himself under control caused his eyelids to flutter shut once more.

Just like in the dream, she was so wet that all it would take was a slight movement upward. His fingers would slip inside as easily as though she were made of ocean water.

He wanted to drown in her.

" _Oh, fuck—_ " He cut himself off to hiss through his teeth. " _Don't_ move. Just let me feel you."

Her fingers clenched in the shoulders of his shirt as she forced herself to remain still. Her forehead pressed harder to his as his fingers slid through her wetness, exploring, touching, feeling. He cursed again, and looked down between them, the shadows so dark that they obscured.

He found her clit with soaked fingers, scissoring it between them and making her thighs quiver. He used gentle, soft movements, his lips finding her bared throat to press open-mouthed kisses to her petal-soft skin.

"Draco," she gasped, throwing her head back. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders. "Draco, please—I need to—"

"Yes," he hissed. "Fucking—do it."

She let out a moan as her hips jerked forward again, rocking harder against the swirl of his fingers, chasing his touch. He looked up through his lashes at her, watching her brows pull together and her mouth fall open on a choked sigh, and his entire body vibrated with desire.

When he slipped two fingers inside of her, she bloomed like a flower for him. She sank down onto them with a groan, wrapping her arms so tightly around his neck that he had to breathe through her hair.

"You're so fucking perfect, you know that?" he breathed into her ear, holding her breast with one hand and sliding his fingers in and out of her body with the other. He twisted them, curled, felt the spongy spot he knew would make her keen. "You feel so fucking tight and perfect."

The movement of her hips stuttered and he let out a breathless laugh.

"Yeah, you like when I talk to you like that, don't you?" His other hand disappeared into her knickers, finding her pearl again. The simultaneous touches inside and outside of her body seemed to send her careening into space, because she let out a sob.

"I like it." Her lips moved against his ear. "I like y—"

"When I do this?" He slammed his fingers into her with rapid speed, again and again, not stopping for even a second. The grey inside of him had gone white. "Huh? You like when I fuck you with my fingers like this?"

Before she could answer, he went faster not because he knew what he was doing—because he did, of course—but because something about the way she was tensing up in his arms showed him that she needed more.

"Good girl," he growled, his chest bursting with an emotion he couldn't place. She whimpered like she was overcome. "That's a good _fucking_ girl for me, aren't you? Come on—I wanna hear you."

He went harder, his forearm muscle burning from exertion that he ignored.

"Tell me, Granger. Tell me whose good girl you are. Tell me—"

" _Oh,"_ she wailed, her body trembling. "Y-Yours. Yours, Draco, yours, yours, yours."

He punctuated each word with a firm thrust of his fingers because he liked the way she sounded when she said she was his.

Draco kissed her again, swallowing her cries with his tongue as he attacked her core with every intention of making her see stars. Her hips jolted forward, forward, forward, and then she turned her face aside so she could let out a low, desperate moan that sent shivers of lightning racing down to his toes.

"Come on my fingers, Hermione," he pleaded in a rough, scratchy voice. " _Fuck—_ I want you to come all over my _fucking_ fingers. Come on. Come on."

"Draco—I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm—" Hermione cried out again, her entire body going rigid as she shattered like a comet crash-landing on Earth. Her leg muscles convulsed and he felt her walls fluttering around his fingers, felt an extra rush of wetness escaping her and slicking his skin. She let out small moans in his ears, the sound of her voice tapering off into pants for air.

Like something written in the cosmos, they turned their heads to lock gazes, each one studying the other. Draco couldn't read her expression—he didn't know what she was feeling. It terrified him.

And then, as the tide goes with the moon, he saw the reverence in her eyes shift into something wholly different. She went stiff. Completely stiff.

Well, shite.

"I shouldn't have done that," she said.

Draco froze with his hands hovering over her hips. "Wait—what?"

"I shouldn't have—oh, my Godric. I shouldn't have—that was—I'm sorry."

Hermione rose to her feet, her hands trembling so visibly that it was impossible to ignore. Her expression was panicked. Full of regret. Fear.

Self-hatred.

Draco scrambled to his feet as she backed away, worried. He moved toward her, reaching, fingers grazing her elbows. She turned her face away and tried to field his touch.

"I just—I'm not— _don't touch me_!"

Draco stepped back, holding his hands up in reflexive defense. Shame pulled his heart to the pit of his stomach. He was no better than the man in Paris. No better than anyone who had ever hurt her.

It was too soon. Of course it was too soon. Even what they'd done in the dream was too soon.

What was he _thinking_?

"Are you—"

"Just—" She squeezed her eyes shut and he saw her chin tremble. "I need to be alone right now."

She turned and left, and moments later, he heard her bedroom door click shut.

He was so fucking stupid.


	25. Chapter 25

**Trigger Warning: body talk, references to size but no numbers**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Three**

Fan- _fucking_ -tastic.

They were back to avoiding each other again.

On Wednesday, Hermione didn't speak to him. She didn't look at him. She didn't come to his room at night, and she didn't appear in his dreams. She was already in the Great Hall by mealtimes, and she didn't come back to the common room until after supper. When Draco did see her, she was with someone.

Theo.

It brassed him off. More than words could _explain_ , it brassed him off. At this point, Theo had been told to stay away from her. It would be one thing if they were studying together, but to spend _hours_ and all three meals together? How was Draco supposed to discern if she was following the new rules?

For all he knew, Theo could be hiding it _for_ her.

Who was Theo to her, anyway? Had Draco's earlier suspicions about them hooking up or having some sort of relationship been true? Was she spending time with Theo because she fancied him, and her regret was based in infidelity?

Draco knew he was insecure. He knew for a fact that he was insecure, because the moment she'd panicked and shown her regret, he hadn't been surprised. In fact, he'd been more surprised that she wanted to try anything with him at all in the first place.

It hurt.

At breakfast on Thursday the 22nd, Draco—as well as the entirety of the thirty or so remaining students at Hogwarts—were astonished to see Hermione marching into the Great Hall to plop down at the Slytherin table beside Theo. The Weaselbee had left the previous day with another group of students leaving for Christmas, and Draco had seen her at the Gryffindor table with Theo during all three meals. But now, here she was, at Slytherin.

She made eye contact with Draco for a moment, and then plated herself up some eggs, ham, and fruit. Theo fell into conversation with her easily, obviously unsurprised to see her there.

Bitterness tasted like ash in Draco's mouth.

So yesterday, while she was avoiding him and spending every waking moment hanging out with Theo, she'd told him she would be sitting at the Slytherin table. He doubted she'd told Theo why, given that her issues were not exactly something he figured she'd spoken of aloud before.

But the fact that she'd told Theo she would sit with _him_ irked Draco.

Draco received two owls. One of his regularly scheduled letters from his father, which he tucked into his pocket so he could put it in the wooden chest, and one on parchment he didn't recognize. He felt concerned at first that it might be from Ryo with some horrible failure of the interview, but when he opened it and saw Blaise's familiar handwriting, relief flooded him.

_Draco,_

_I know you leave to go to Wales on the 23_ _rd_ _, was it? That's tomorrow? Did you wanna come to London today for some Christmas shopping, dinner, and dancing? I'm meeting Pansy while my uncle and aunt handle some business in the city. We got reservations for Italian, if you're interested. We're staying at a Muggle hotel—it's called The Masengon. I think you stayed there once with your parents. Can you meet us there at two?_

_Best,_

_Blaise_

_P.S. You can bring Granger, can't you? I think Pansy wants to apologize for real this time._

Draco's eyebrows rose and he glanced down the table. Would she want to go all the way to London with him?

Theo looked up from his porridge and looked in Draco's direction. He was laughing at something that Hermione was also laughing at, and when his eyes met Draco's, his smile faded a fraction. Hermione glanced at him, and then she looked at Draco, too.

Draco wondered if they felt the same tension he did.

He contemplated it for a while but found that there was absolutely no good reason why he shouldn't invite Hermione to go. It was Winter holiday, and if she were doing anything with Theo today, she could reschedule it because Draco said so.

_Blaise,_

_We'll be there. I remember the hotel so we'll meet you in the lobby at two._

— _D_

When Theo and Hermione left, they walked directly in front of him, across the table. With confidence that Draco had always possessed when it came to Quidditch and competitive sport, he called Hermione's name. There weren't many people at the table but seeing as Hermione Granger sitting at Slytherin was shocking no matter _how_ many were present, several pairs of eyes watched as she and Theo stopped to look over their shoulders.

"Come to London with me today," Draco drawled, keeping his eyes on Hermione's. "Just for an outing."

"Right now?" She exchanged glances with Theo, and then looked at the doors to the Great Hall. "Like, right _now_ now?"

"Yeah, we could do that," Theo said, and the smile he gave her made Draco want to cringe. "We could—"

"Not an open invitation," Draco interjected, giving Theo an openly cold look. He brushed toast crumbs off of his hands and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

A Slytherin Fourth Year nearby coughed and tucked into her bangers and mash.

Theo narrowed his eyes at Draco. "Ah. I see."

Hermione looked from one boy to the other, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. "Right, well . . . London? I suppose I could go. I'm not leaving for holiday anyway."

Theo placed a hand on her elbow. "Are you gonna be all right?"

_Was she going to be all right?!_

What the actual fuck?

Draco felt his anger flaring in his chest like an impending volcanic eruption.

"She'll be fine," he snapped. "She'll be with me."

Theo glared at him, and it almost took Draco aback. He'd never seen Theo give him such a vehement look before.

"I'll be fine," Hermione said, and Draco watched her put her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to scream. "Draco, that sounds lovely. I'll meet you in the common room?"

"Yeah, that . . ." He trailed off when he saw her glance at the Great Hall doors again. "Actually no, that's okay. Where are you headed? I'll walk you so we don't lose track of each other."

"Are we taking the Hogwarts Express?"

"Yes, I was thinking we could since the plans we have are for the afternoon, and I wouldn't want us to miss it."

"We won't miss it. I just have to run to—" She looked at Theo again, who was glowering at Draco with his arms crossed. "I mean, I was gonna—"

"It's okay, really," Draco said, cutting her off. "I'll come with you. I think the morning train leaves at nine, and we've only got twenty minutes."

He knew exactly why she wanted to meet him later. She had every intention of going straight to the loo, and he knew it. Question was, did Theo know that's what she was doing?

Or was she just trying to get a few extra moments alone with him?

Theo scowled. "Draco, I can walk her—"

"That'll be all, Theo," Draco said, giving him a once-over. "Hermione's coming with me."

"I haven't agreed to anything," Hermione retorted.

Theo stepped towards her. "If she hasn't agreed to anything, then—"

"I don't know about you, but I don't think a double date consists of five people. Typically," Draco said, placing his hands flat on the table and pushing himself to his feet, "they consist of four people. I'm afraid there's no room, but thank you for offering."

Hermione appeared shocked, her eyes wide and jaw hanging open. Draco hadn't meant to do it—to say it like that—but he couldn't think of any other reason to keep Theo out of their business, and to keep him from insisting on going to London, too.

"A double date?" Theo asked with a scoff.

"Yes. With Blaise and Pansy. She wants to make true amends, and they've made reservations."

"Reservations?" Hermione and Theo said at the same time.

"For Italian." Draco's lips curved up into a smirk and he gave Theo a lazy look. "So I'm afraid you simply can't come. Hermione—I'll meet you at the door in a few moments."

Without casting another look in their direction, he walked towards the door.

* * *

Draco stepped down off the train.

He turned and held out his hand to Hermione, who looked at him with surprise. She placed her hand in his and he helped her down onto Platform 9 ¾.

She'd gone back to the common room with him and while he went to stuff his father's latest letter into the wooden chest, she'd changed clothes and grabbed a crossbody bag. Now, she wore an all black-and-red plaid dress with long sleeves and a short hem, thick black tights, and a pair of boots. Draco himself wore a pair of dark denims, a long-sleeved black shirt, a black belt, and his own boots. They both wore their coats.

They hadn't spoken the entire train ride, even though Draco thought it made the awkwardness ten times worse than it had to be. They were the only people on the entire train, and they'd taken a compartment together towards the front of the first car. Draco had kept himself occupied staring out the window and thinking, while Hermione had curled up on the seat and fallen asleep the entire four hour trip.

He'd be lying if he didn't steal the occasional glance at her while she slumbered.

"Come on," Draco said, his fingers still curled around hers. "We've got to go to their hotel and meet them."

"Okay," she said in a small voice, glancing around the empty platform. Then, she frowned. "Are you sure Pansy wants me here? I'm not entirely sure it's the best idea."

"Why?" Draco couldn't help but speak through a smirk. "You gonna launch yourself at her again?"

" _No_ ," she said. "That was . . . Out of character for me. I have a short temper these days."

"Blaise told me Pansy wants to apologize again," he replied with a shrug of his shoulder. "I figure she's going to behave."

"Fine, then so will I."

"Good."

Hermione started to pull her hand out of his.

For some reason, he felt a spike of panic in his spirit. It wasn't like it mattered—Blaise and Pansy knew Hermione was coming. But something about the mental image of the two of them walking up to his friends without holding hands bothered him. It wasn't like they were dating, or like this really _was_ a date. He just wanted to touch her.

He tightened his hold on her hand. Because she was so much shorter than him, she had to bend her arm to be able to accommodate him. She tipped her head back to look up at him, her curly hair brushing his upper arm.

Was she going to tell him to let go?

"Ready?" he said.

After a pause, she squeezed his fingers and held tight. "Yeah, all right. Let's go."

Draco Apparated to the hotel, which he remembered was near the clock tower. When they appeared in the alley beside it, Hermione leaned against his side a bit, holding his hand with both of hers. He glanced down and saw that she was gazing up at the bricks with an apprehensive expression on her face.

No, she wouldn't want to be in an alley, would she?

Draco gave her hand a gentle tug, and he pulled her in the direction of the busy sidewalk. They went into the building, which looked much more extravagant from the front, and entered an expensive lobby with white marble floors and a fountain. Draco spotted Blaise and Pansy walking towards them, having just come from the elevator. Blaise raised his hand in greeting, and Pansy's lips twitched upward.

Their eyes fell to where Hermione was clutching Draco's hand. Draco held his breath, wondering if his friends would react poorly.

They came to a stop in front of them.

"Happy holidays, you two," Blaise said with a brilliant grin. He wore a black pea coat much like Draco's and trousers. His kinky curls had been freshly shorn, the edges of his hairline shaped just-so. "How was the trip over?"

"Oh, it was fine," Draco said. Without letting go of her, he nudged Hermione with his elbow. "This little one slept the whole way, though."

He saw her cheeks tinge darker as she returned Blaise's smile.

"Aw, don't give her any pet names," Pansy said, but she was smiling. She was clad in a white turtleneck, a pleated miniskirt, tights, and heeled boots. Her lips were painted a vibrant red. "You're making her blush."

Draco let out a nervous laugh, his gaze bouncing from one girl to the other to Blaise. It was clear that both boys were worried about what would happen next. If they got into another kneazle fight in the lobby of an expensive hotel like this one, it wouldn't look good.

Finally, Hermione spoke.

"Yes, it went fast, I guess you could say. Draco told me you guys had reservations tonight?"

Blaise and Pansy nodded, and Pansy said, "We made dinner reservations at our favorite Italian spot. It's Muggle, but it's one of those places only celebrities frequent. All it takes is a little—" She raised one hand and wriggled her fingers with a playful lift of her eyebrows. "— _zhoosh_ of Legilimency, and they let us in every time."

"Although," Blaise said, "one time, we did pretend we were celebrities. We came up with this elaborate backstory and placed it into the minds of everyone there. It was ridiculous—someone called Muggle photographers. What are they called? The pollarozzo?"

"Paparazzi?" Hermione's brows pulled together.

"Yeah, those guys with the cameras." Pansy giggled and swept a hand through her long black hair. "They took so many photos of us, assuming that we must be celebrities from another country. That was—this Summer, wasn't it, Blaise?"

"August, I think." Blaise leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek. "Now every time we go, they think we're those same celebrities."

"You don't _obliviate_ them after?" Hermione asked.

"Why would we?" Blaise said with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "It gets us a reservation every time, without fail. We just tell them our names and they clear our favorite booth."

Pansy let out a dreamy sigh and linked her arm through Blaise's. "It's right by a window overlooking the river. Since it's on the upper floor, you can see London for miles and at night—with the lights—it's just delightful."

"That sounds really beautiful, actually," Hermione said.

"I'm surprised you aren't going to complain about us using spells on Muggles like that." Pansy's painted lips curled up into a small smile. Her gaze moved all over Hermione's face, scrutinizing her. "Doesn't it go against your moral Gryffindor compass?"

Draco felt the back of his neck prickle. He knew Pansy well—this was her way of testing the waters with Hermione, to see if she was "cool" or not.

He glanced down at Hermione. She was still smiling.

"My moral compass went defunct a long time ago," she said. "We've all done wicked things with mind magic before."

There was a small pause before Pansy grinned.

"I think we'll get along just fine."

Like that, the tension that had been growing shattered and everyone relaxed. Draco felt it leaving his body in droves, felt Hermione leaning more fully against him. Blaise wrapped his arm around Pansy and slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat.

"So, we thought we'd get started with some Christmas shopping," he said. "We're visiting with my aunt and uncle this Christmas and they're a bit non-traditional. They just gave us some galleons to exchange at Diagon, so we did, and now we're itching to spend them. And you, Granger, are probably the one who know this city better than we do, yeah?"

"I mean, I grew up in a suburb of London," Hermione replied. She tapped her chin with her free hand and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window on the front of the hotel. "There's a mall I know of that we can go to. We can Apparate there outside."

* * *

"Well, they seem to be getting along."

Draco looked up from a table full of women's shirts to see Blaise standing next to him. Then, he looked across the crowded store. Hermione and Pansy were near the wall, chatting amiably and giggling while they sifted through a rack of dresses.

"I'll never understand witches," Draco muttered. "I was so sure they were going to tear each other's eyelashes out."

"I was more concerned when Pansy did a complete 180 and told me to invite her!" Blaise said, keeping his voice low so the girls wouldn't hear them.

"Wow, really?" Draco was stunned. "That's not how she seemed to feel the day she went at Hermione's throat. Fuck."

"Pansy's a bitch, but she's got a heart," Blaise said with a laugh. "I think she truly did feel bad, when she thought about it. No one wants their drink laced with anything, and fey tea is known to be dangerous. I mean, she regretted it right after the two of you passed out. Did you ever figure that out, by the way?"

"Figure what out?" Draco searched Blaise's eyes. It was strange standing next to someone who was as tall as him, Draco having gotten so used to looking down at everyone.

"Did you ever figure out why you both passed out at the same time?"

Oh, that was right. Because of the star bond, they'd been so connected that they both felt the effects of the tea. Which in many ways proved that they were bonded.

Draco didn't think it was intelligent to keep pretending it was a possibility. All the signs pointed to yes.

They were bonded.

"Yeah," Draco said, "but I don't want to talk about it. It's good that Pansy's come 'round, though."

"Hm." Blaise eyed him, but didn't press the issue. "I'm glad they're getting along, in any case. It would have made for an awkward dinner if they fought over pasta and wine."

Draco nodded, absentminded as he watched the girls chase after each other, excited as they held dresses up to their bodies. The last time he'd seen Hermione laugh that much was in the dream world, when they were dashing across the sand towards the sea.

At one point, Pansy held a dress up to herself, then passed it over to Hermione, who shook her head and said something. Pansy replied, gave her an exasperated look, and then grabbed Hermione's left wrist. Hermione stumbled forward as Pansy shoved the sleeve of the shorter witch's jumper up and wrapped her fingers around her forearm. She said a few words to her, grinned, and passed her the dress once again.

With a grimace, Hermione accepted it. Pansy turned back to the dress wall and resumed hunting. But Hermione lingered in place for a moment, staring down at her sleeve.

Draco swallowed.

Pansy had been pointing out her size.

But knowing Pansy as well as he did, he could tell her smile was genuine. She really was having a good time with Hermione, and she probably hadn't even realized that she'd triggered her. He knew there was no way she could know exactly what her shenanigans had wrought upon Hermione, so it made sense that she would forgive her easily.

"Blaise, darling!" Pansy cried across the store. She'd moved to the shoe section. "You've got to come help me pick!"

Blaise went to where Pansy had called him to watch her try on a pair of heels.

They'd been shopping for a couple of hours now, and this was the final store. Blaise's pockets were laden with his and Pansy's purchases, shrunk down to fit until they could go back to the hotel before dinner. Hermione had purchased a couple of small things in other shops with Muggle money she had on her person, but Draco could see that she was a lot more cautious with her money than the Slytherins were. Draco himself hadn't gotten anything, knowing that he only had a certain amount of money to live off of while he was doing his internship.

 _If_ he got the internship, that is.

He knew how lucky he was to have his own Gringotts account not be empty. The war during Seventh Year had kept him from spending the money his parents gave him monthly on anything other than tattoos, which were inexpensive compared to the things he usually spent his galleons on when he was younger. So he had an entire years' worth of allowance that he'd been stretching out.

Of course, he could just answer his father's letters. Then he could get access to the Malfoy family accounts and funds wouldn't be an issue.

But his pride wouldn't allow it.

"Draco?"

Draco turned away from a wall of men's denims and looked down to see Hermione. She stood there with a few hangers hooked over the edge of her hand.

"I'm gonna go try these on," she said. "I want to get something nice to wear tonight if the restaurant thinks Pansy and Blaise are bloody celebrities."

"Okay," he murmured, reaching to brush a loose feather from her hair. There were quite a few things in the store that had feathers, so he wasn't surprised she'd attracted one.

Her eyes followed the movement of his hand, but she said nothing about the outward display.

"I didn't want you to think I just disappeared, or anything." She looked over in the corner of the store where an open doorway led to a hallway of fancy doors. "The dressing rooms are over there."

"All right," he said, a bit perplexed. "Did you want me to—"

"Could you just sort-of . . . Hover nearby?" She lowered her voice and averted her eyes. "It's mortifying, but I haven't exactly tried anything on in months. I don't know if this is even going to be successful. I ate breakfast today and didn't get to—I don't know if I got the right size—they might be too small, and—"

"Hey," he said gently, placing his hand on her elbow and bending a bit to look her in the eyes. "Don't worry. Just use your wand to transfigure it all to fit. Don't worry about how anything fits—just focus on things like the colors."

She took a deep breath. "Okay. Yes. I can do that."

They headed over to the fitting rooms, and Draco sifted through a rack of men's jumpers and knits while she disappeared through a door. He passed through all of the colors and styles, wondering how Hermione was doing. He had never been the type to show how anxious he was, but when he thought about his mother and how she must have struggled with her robes, it made him worry about what thoughts were going through her head.

Was she _okay_?

Time passed.

And passed.

And passed.

And passed.

Blaise and Pansy wove their way through the crowd of shoppers to come to where Draco was leaning against a shelf. He was holding a shoe box and Pansy's arms were full of clothes.

"Where's Hermione?" Pansy asked, glancing into the hallway. "I'm about ready to go."

"She's trying on dresses," Draco said, gesturing to the hallway. "It's been nearly twenty minutes—I'm about to go in after her."

"So go in there," Pansy purred, smirking.

Blaise snorted. "You can't be serious. What do you think they're gonna do? Snog?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Pansy, we're not—"

"Don't play me for a fool, Draco Malfoy," Pansy said in an exaggerated accent, wrinkling her nose up at him. "Anyone with a pair of eyes can see you're positively obsessed. She holds your hand like she's afraid to fall, and you watch her like she's going to disappear if you look away. It's sickening and it's adorable and I love it. I'm sure at dinner, you'll be eye-fucking one another all evening."

"Good thing we're going dancing afterward," Blaise said.

"Come off it, Pansy," Draco growled. After what had happened with them in the chair in the common room, he doubted anything of the sort would be occurring. But the fact that Pansy—someone on the outside—could see that something was there between them? It felt validating.

Hermione couldn't possibly have a connection like this with Theo.

"So we'll meet you, then?" Pansy said. "I really want to get back to the hotel so Hermione and I can get ready."

"Wait a second," Draco said, sighing. "She only had a few things. Let me check on her, and then come back out and tell you."

Leaving them behind, Draco entered the long hallway.

"Hermione?" he said, raising his voice. "Hermione, are you all right?"

Silence.

Concern pulled his brows together on his forehead. If she was silent, she was either dead or something was wrong. Since he was still alive, she wasn't dead.

That meant something was wrong.

"I'm just checking on you," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You wanna let me know which one you're in?"

Silence.

"Come on, Granger. Pansy and Blaise are getting antsy because we've only got an hour-and-half until dinner, and—"

"Third one. On the left."

Her voice was meek—merely a murmur—but it made his panic levels slam his heart up into his throat. She didn't sound okay at _all_. His head whipped to the left just as he heard a lock click. He turned the golden handle and pushed it open.

Hermione stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself in a coral satin dress. She looked phenomenal, but the look on her face was enough for Draco to see that she didn't like it.

"What's the matter?" he said softly.

"I hate my body," she breathed, her eyes wild. Her hands were shaking as she smoothed them down the front of her abdomen over and over and over. "I don't like my curves. I wish they were gone. It doesn't look right."

"What do you mean?" He kept his tone calm as he pushed the door shut behind him. The room was small and he was so tall that it felt cramped.

"My legs are too short and my torso is so _long_ —it doesn't look right. I don't look—look _normal_. My hips are nonexistent and my breasts are too big. It makes me look like a woman."

"You _are_ a woman."

"I don't want to look like one!" she shrieked, and then she buried her face in her hands. Her body trembled as she took shallow, manic breaths. "I don't want to look like this. You don't understand. You don't understand."

Draco frowned. She sounded on the verge of hyperventilation. "I do understand—but you don't look wrong or abnormal. You look—"

"I can't wear this dress," she whined, and she reached behind herself to frantically pull at the zipper. It seemed to either be stuck, or resistant to coming down. With a panicked whimper, she stamped her feet. "Get it off me. Get it _off_ me!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" he said, and he brushed her hands out of the way. "Calm down, all right? I've got it."

She pouted, looking at herself in the mirror with a sour, revolted expression as he yanked the zipper down and the two sides of the dress came apart. She held it to the front of herself and started to turn away, but Draco was faster than her. He molded his frontside to her back, rounded his spine, and rested his head on her shoulder. She stiffened as he slid his arms so tight around her waist that they doubled around to her back. Their eyes met in the glass.

"Stop looking at yourself like you hate what you see," he said in a soft voice, his eyebrows rising up. "Even if you do, pretend that you don't."

"And what am I supposed to do?" she mumbled, placing her free hand on his forearm. "Look at myself through someone else's eyes?"

"Exactly."

"Whose? The Dark Lord's?"

Draco couldn't help it. He laughed. She had a tendency to do that—make him laugh as though they didn't have years of past and trauma between them. As though they had always liked one another.

"No, you little brat," he said through a grin before he buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled the scent of her perfume. Gods, he wished she didn't feel so frail in his arms. When he lifted his head again, he said, "Look at yourself through mine."

The look on her face was unreadable. Shy or concerned or scared, he was unable to discern.

"If I did that," she whispered, "what would I see?"

Draco thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to put into words what he saw when he looked at her. Long ago, he would have had nothing good to say. Now, he had so much floating around his head that he didn't know how to tell her. He didn't know how to sift between what was real and what was just a dream.

What if it was all just the bond?

But as he stood there, studying her reflection and feeling her body leaning back against his as though he were her pillar, he knew exactly what she wanted to hear.

"You'd see a rose," he said. "The kind that blooms in the Winter. My father planted an entire garden of them for my mother, and every Winter, they'd bloom right outside the window of her tea room so she could have something pretty to look at when everything was grey." His heart rate sped up, but he forced his voice to stay steady. "Anything the world throws at you, you weather it. You can handle anything, and when I look at you, I see the way you keep going, even when it seems like you might fall apart. It doesn't matter what your body does or doesn't look like, okay? You bloom when everything is grey."

For a moment, her lips started to curl upward. She was going to smile.

Then, as fast as the light had crossed her face, it turned to shadows and she crumbled. Her facial expression fell to the depths and she dissolved into tears. He felt her body shaking in the circle of his embrace, much like it had in the dream when he'd made it to the hotel room and caught her as she fell.

He didn't know what to do.

So he turned her around and kissed her.

Her held her face between his hands, tipped her head back, and pressed kisses all over her face that he hoped could assuage whatever pain she felt. He knew that she hadn't told him everything was okay after what happened in the common room, but she was so upset and he had no idea how else to comfort her.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, and then he kissed her lips again. "Do you hear me?" Another kiss. "Stop crying." Another. "Stop." Another. "I hate it when you cry."

Draco's lips pulled her into a deep, torrential flood of a kiss that left her no room to weep. It was either cry or be drowned. His tongue slipped past the seam of her mouth, parting it so he could spell out his feelings to her better than his words could.

Kissing her was like coming home.

Just like that, the kiss became a snog, and then her back was pressed up against the mirror. The dress had fallen to her ankles, and Draco's hands were smoothing down her bare back. Her sobs became whimpers as she wrapped her arms around his neck so she could pull him down to her level and kiss him back.

He pulled back to catch his breath, his forehead resting against hers and their eyes dancing across one another's faces.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

"Mhm," he hummed, and then he kissed her one more time. She returned the kiss, her hands cupping his jaw and sliding down his neck to flutter across his tattoos like she always seemed to like to do. He shuddered from the tickle of her fingertips, feeling his stomach coiling into a familiar tight shape.

Didn't they have somewhere they needed to be?

With great reluctance, he broke their kiss and stood up straight. He looked at the clothes hanging on the hooks on the wall. "Which one did you like the best?"

Sniffling, she pointed to a pastel lavender dress with thin straps and a black stripe down each side. "That one."

"In the Winter?"

"Well, with my tights and—and we're gonna be dancing . . ."

"Hm. Let me see it."

He looked up at the ceiling as she changed out of the dress that had caused her such distress, and then accepted the lavender dress from him. As much as he wanted to look at her just to see whatever it was that she saw that he didn't, he knew it would only cause her more anxiety.

"Okay, you can look," she said.

Draco lowered his eyes to her body, where they swept the length of her form. The dress was the type that contoured to her body, with a short hem that stopped just under her rear. The black stripes that ran vertical down either side of the front were mirrored on the back, and there was a thin black belt wrapped around her waist. Though the majority of the dress was rich lavender in color, the neckline and straps were made of the same thin black fabric as the stripes.

She looked fucking good.

"You're wearing it," he said.

She blinked. "I am? Are you sure?"

"Yep," he said, and then his hands latched to her waist like magnets. "You're fucking wearing it."

He kissed her throat, nuzzling through her curls and tickling her. She laughed and her fingers slid into his hair. His hands traveled up and down her sides, feeling the soft dress and the dips of her curves, and he felt heat spreading across his skin like wildfire. The kisses he was dropping onto her throat turned heated and insistent.

"Draco," she panted. "This is—it's a dressing room."

"Do you want me to stop?" he challenged, tracing her pulse with the tip of his tongue.

She made a strangled noise and shivered, her fingernails scraping his scalp. Giving him no reply, she tilted her head to the side, pressing her skin closer to his mouth. He growled and scraped his teeth along her flesh, his fingers digging into her back on their way down to her rear end.

Draco lifted his gaze to the mirror, seeing her curls hanging to the small of her back, and his tattooed hands gripping handfuls of her fleshy bottom over the top of the lavender dress. He saw her on tip-toe, trying to remain as close to him as possible.

In this moment, she was his.

"Are you guys coming?"

Pansy.

Right outside the door.

"Shite," Draco breathed. He called, "We're coming!"

They drew away from one another, sharing small, secretive smiles. Hermione then gestured to him to turn, which he did, and she put her clothing back on with frantic speed. They both laughed as they moved, Hermione trying to roll her tights up onto her hips as Draco laced her combat boots for her.

"Hurry up," Pansy said in mock-annoyance. "Every second you two waste snogging is one second less for me to do your hair and make-up, Hermione!"

"I know, I know!" Hermione called, dragging her jumper over the top of her dress and scrambling to fix her hair.

Draco tried not to feel _too_ excited about the fact that she didn't try to convince Pansy they hadn't been snogging. It didn't mean anything. She might think all of it was due to the bond.

It might not mean as much to her as it did to him.

They exited the dressing room, Draco with the lavender dress on the hanger and Hermione with the clothes she'd decided not to get. She smiled at Pansy, and then went to put the clothes back.

Pansy's gaze rose to his hair, which he knew was a mussed-up disaster, and she smirked.

"Say nothing, and I won't kill you," Draco warned.

"I didn't say a bloody word."

They went back out to the main floor, where Blaise was giving him pointed looks, too, and then Hermione was dashing back over. She wasn't empty-handed, though.

" _Pansy_ ," she said in a grave tone, holding up a pair of platform heels as though they were one of the Deathly Hallows. They were lavender with black straps and about three-and-a-half inches high. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. " _These. Shoes."_

Pansy—who had given her selections to Blaise to hold—slapped a hand over her mouth.

"You have to get them," she said, and then she slapped a hand over her mouth for a second again. "I mean—you have to."

"I must."

"You simply must."

And so it was decided.

They headed to the register, where a woman stood behind one of the registers with curly blonde hair and a smile. Pansy and Blaise moved ahead first, greeting her and wishing her a happy Christmas. As the clerk began to take the hangers and drop them into a bin below the counter, Pansy started rifling through her purse.

"You can use galleons," the woman said, and she gave each of them a pointed look.

The four teenagers exchanged glances, and then it clicked. The woman was a witch. Likely a Half-blood or a Muggle-born. She was doing them a favor.

" _Oh_!" Pansy's face lit up. "Excellent. Then there's three more things I wanted to go grab!"

As she dashed off with Blaise in her wake, Hermione took her place so she could be rung up first. She placed the heeled platforms and the dress on the counter, beaming up at the taller witch.

"You both look so familiar," the witch behind the counter said as she typed the numbers from the dress price tag into the register. "Why do I recognize you?"

Hermione let out a nervous titter and looked up at Draco, who placed one hand on the counter and leaned on it. They looked into each other's eyes, silently discussing what to say. After all, in the wizarding world, they were the equivalent of the heroine and the villain, and here they were, shopping together like the war hadn't just happened eight months ago.

"Did you go to school with us?" Hermione said, mindful of the other patrons in the store. It wouldn't do to expose the wizarding world two days before Christmas.

"No, I studied abroad," she said.

"Beauxbatons?"

"Ilvermorny. I just graduated in June and came back to Britain in July." The woman grinned, and then she glanced up at Draco. "Aren't you Draco Malfoy?"

Draco's heart skipped a beat.

"I don't know if I recognize you," she said, pointing to Hermione. Then, she gave Draco an almost mischievous smile as she folded Hermione's dress and laid it onto a sparkly tissue wrap. "But you, I know. Your family is somewhat of a _topic_ at Ilvermorny."

"Really?" Draco said, astonished. "In a good or bad way?"

"Eh, not so good. The war was highly discussed in America, and your father was in the papers at least once a week. He used to do business with Pureblood families in New York, and I think that's why it was so shocking when he made his stance known. Supporting that Voldemort fellow, and all."

Draco tried not to let darkness from his heart bleed into his eyes. He knew his father was known, but he hadn't thought that he would be infamous in other countries. It was difficult to think about the world outside of the British wizarding world when it felt like it was the entire universe for him.

His father shamed him even thousands of miles across the sea.

_And what does this mean for my internship? If he was known in America, then it stands to reason he might be known in Japan. Father did business all over the world._

If Lucius stole his last chance at a future away from him, he would burn every single letter in that wooden chest.

"So, you're his girlfriend, then?" the witch asked as she rang up the shoes.

Beside him, he felt Hermione jolting out of some sort of reverie.

"Me? Oh, I'm—"

The witch gasped. "Wait. I know who you are! You're Hermione Granger. You're the Witch Who Won the War—from _The Prophet_!"

Hermione gave her a meek smile, and took a small step towards Draco's side. "I suppose."

The witch gave them each a strange look in turn and then put one hand on her hip.

"So . . . If you're Draco Malfoy . . . And you're Hermione Granger . . . Then why are you two out shopping together?"

Draco had absolutely no clue how to answer that.

"I think I'd like to pay now," Hermione said, threading strength into her tone. "What's the total?"

"It'll be 349 pounds, love," the witch said, looking Hermione up and down and then at Draco. "So around 70 galleons. Did you want a shopping bag?"

"Erm . . ." She rifled through her purse. "Yes. But just a second . . ."

Something in the clerk's face told Draco that they were going to have a nightmare on their hands when she pieced together exactly how shocking it was that they were in London together.

"Oh, that's all right," Hermione suddenly said, her voice a rushed, embarrassed whisper. "I didn't realize this shop was that expensive. It must be designer. I must have misunderstood the price tag . . . I just won't—"

"You want to put them back?" The witch looked astonished.

Hermione didn't have enough money.

Draco almost sneered. He was a Malfoy, and whether they ended up keeping the bond or going their separate ways or _whatever_ they did, she wasn't going to have to go through the humiliation of putting her purchases back. Hermione would have whatever she wanted.

"Nah, it's okay," he said, reaching into his coat pocket for the coin purse he always kept on him. His mind raced, doing math in his head as he began gathering galleons. "I'll take care of it. You said I can use galleons?"

"Yes," the witch said, tossing her blonde curls back. "I take wizarding money all the time, and then I just transfigure it later for the manager since he's—" She whispered, "Muggle. I'm certain if my parents had sent me to Hogwarts, I'd have been sorted into Slytherin."

"Oh, I'm sure," Draco said with a half-smile.

"Are you sure you want to buy this for me?" Hermione looked horrified. "It's a lot of money."

He _wasn't_ sure. He had no idea what was going to happen with his internship and unless he sucked up to his father, he wasn't getting anymore money until he could figure out a way to make some. And if he did end up going to Japan, then he might need to pay for things like a place to live, food, and other expenses.

But Hermione was going to have whatever the fuck she wanted.

"I'm sure," he said, holding Hermione's gaze as he dropped the galleons into the witch's waiting hand in a way that would be impossible for shoppers nearby to tell what he'd given her.

She smiled.

Once her dress and shoes were in a nice, large bag with the shop's name on the outside of it, they said good-bye to the witch behind the counter and headed for the door to wait for Pansy and Blaise.

"It's going to be in the papers," Hermione whispered, sliding her hand into his own as though it were second nature.

"Probably," he mumbled. "Does that bother you?"

She looked worried. "It's not me we need to worry about."

Ah. He'd almost forgotten.

Potter, the Weaselbee, and all of her friends were going to have simultaneous conniption fits when they read _those_ headlines.

Blaise and Pansy traipsed up to them, holding three shopping bags between them.

"Okay, we should go back to the hotel, Hermione," Pansy said before Draco could say anything more to Hermione. "I can't wait to see the full effect. This is so exciting!"

"I'm excited, too," Hermione said.

"All right, Draco," Pansy said with a fierce grin. "I've got to steal your _little one_ away for a while."

"Have fun," he drawled, giving Hermione's hand a brief squeeze before he let it go.

Hermione flushed and gave Draco a small wave. Pansy took the bags from Blaise, including the bags that they'd shrunken to fit into his pockets, and then the girls left to go find a place to DisApparate.

Blaise clapped a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Now that they're gone, we're off."

"To where?"

He steered Draco around to look across the open mall. Draco's eyes scanned the many colorful stores, passing over the crowd.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"The jewelry store," Blaise said, his tone excited.

"What for?"

"Jewelry, dumb-arse." Blaise slung his arm around Draco's neck and they headed for the jewelry store across the way. "Pansy and I are almost to our one year."

"Do you have enough Muggle money for that?"

Blaise smirked. "No. But I've got a very skilled Legilimens with me, and we've both got wands. How's that sound?"

Draco couldn't help it. He smirked.

"Excellent."

They entered the store, their eyes absorbing and devouring the necklaces, rings, bracelets, and earrings on display. The shop wasn't as full as the clothing stores had been, but it was full enough for the boys to wander about without any clerks approaching them yet. Near one side of the store, a clerk was helping an older man find something for his wife, and it made Draco's lips twitch up.

That was one nice thing about his father. Lucius had loved Narcissa with every fiber of his being, and he'd done anything and everything for her. What he lacked in attentiveness, he made up for in affection. Narcissa had no shortage of gifts coming to her at any day of the week. Flowers, chocolates, robes, furniture.

Jewelry.

And then Draco saw it. Resting in velvet and encompassing everything he saw when he looked at her.

It was the perfect Christmas gift.

"Isn't it a little soon to be thinking of jewelry for you and Granger?" Blaise asked from his right side. "How long's it been since you got together?"

Draco placed his hands on the warm glass and leaned over it, gazing at the sparkling gemstones set in white-gold. "We're not together."

"You're not? But you're so . . ."

"So what?"

"Possessive."

"And?" Draco felt heat flooding his body, reaching towards his cheeks. "What of it?"

"You're not together, but you act like you are, and you want to get her jewelry?"

Draco looked at him. "Buy."

Blaise smirked. "Yes, _buy_."

Of course he wanted to get her jewelry. He wanted to buy her whatever she wanted and give her the world. He wanted to take all the pieces of her that the man in Paris had torn asunder and sew them back together. He wanted to hold her while she cried and wash her when she couldn't wash herself and play in the ocean with her beneath the moon. If it was real—if it was truly _real—_ he wanted to embrace the star bond, not reverse it.

He wanted to give her something that shone the same way her smile did under the silver stars of his dreams.

" _Witches deserve nice things."_

She had to have it.

Five minutes and a disgustingly easy Legilimency spell later, Blaise and Draco each left the store with a gift bag.


	26. Chapter 26

**The bands that play can be whoever you want, but I imagine them to be I See Stars and Of Mice & Men when Austin Carlisle was still there. I'm aware that those bands didn't exist in the nineties nor are they British, but I didn't mention the bands by name in that portion of the story.**

**TRIGGER WARNING: ED CONTENT AND BODY/SIZE MENTIONS**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Four**

"Fuck."

That was it. That was all he could say. There were no other words within his vocabulary that he could use to properly describe how he felt when he saw Hermione and Pansy exiting the elevator. Pansy was dressed to the nines in black sequins and feathers, and Hermione wore the dress and heels she'd bought. She had pulled her dress coat on over the entire ensemble.

Fuck.

Her legs looked like a million galleons in those tights. Her body in the lavender dress was phenomenal to him, elongated by the height of the heels, and her curls were tight and bouncy. And she was wearing make-up for the first time that year, her lips painted nude and her eyes shimmering with bronze eyeshadow.

Just . . . Fuck.

"There's my beautiful lady," Blaise said, walking to meet Pansy halfway. He embraced her, leaning down to kiss her lips.

Hermione click-clacked her way across the marble floor, a shy expression on her face as she came to a stop in front of Draco. Inside his coat pockets, his palms were clammy.

"Those shoes make you a lot taller," he said, smirking. "I think you almost come to my knees."

The shyness melted into a look of playful indignation, and she shoved at his shoulder a little with her fingers. "You're so rude. My forehead's at your chin now."

"Hmm. I'll allow it."

"Oh, you will, will you?"

"I will."

The way her head tilted back, with her eyes half-shut and her voice lowered . . .

It would be so natural to kiss her like they were a couple. Like there was nothing and no one outside of this hotel, this day, and this encounter. Nothing but them.

"Let's get going," Pansy said, she and Blaise coming to stand beside them. "I'm starved!"

Hermione pushed her curls back and took a step away from him. "Me, too."

Draco tried not to raise an eyebrow. He sure hoped she was.

* * *

They spun into existence in a small lot behind a dark building, the sunset peeking orange from above the roofs.

The restaurant was taller than Draco expected, and he could tell it was the perfect height to see the river.

"You say celebrities come here?" Draco asked as he adjusted the lapels of his pea coat.

"Yes," Pansy said, smoothing out Blaise's coat and the shirt beneath it. "And they think we're celebrities, too. So, come up with a backstory."

"Do we have to?" Hermione asked with a grimace. "I'm not as creative as I wish I was."

"You don't have to," Blaise said, and then he grinned, "but it's fun, so do it anyway. I told them I was a rapper from America, and they believed it."

Draco shot him a look and they fell into a fit of snickers.

"And I told them I was his model girlfriend from Bulgaria." Pansy giggled and tossed her hair over her shoulder, giving Draco a mock-flirtatious look. "Of course."

They ascended the stone steps leading up to the restaurant's extravagant golden doors.

"Fine," Draco said. "Then I guess I'm an actor from . . . Oh, I dunno—I'm pale and blonde so . . . The Netherlands. Hermione, what about you?"

From behind him, he could hear her panting quite heavily. He glanced back at her, somewhat concerned, and saw her using the railing to keep herself upright. She looked exhausted.

"I guess," she said between deep breaths, "I'm a chapel painter. From Rome."

"Excellent choice for the 1400s," Blaise said. "But I don't think they'll call the paparazzi for that one. If you want your picture taken, then you've got to pick something from the big three—actor, musician, or model."

"My picture?" Hermione stopped and gulped air as she laughed. "Who says I want my photo taken?"

" _I_ want my photo taken," Blaise shot back.

"Fine." Another gasp. "I can't possibly be a _model_ , so I guess I'm a singer from Brazil."

Draco turned and went back a few steps, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her forward onto the step with him. He knew it probably looked like one or both of them was drunk, but he could see her legs wobbling.

"Come here," he murmured. "Let's get you up the steps."

"Thank you," she whispered, her hand going to the back of his neck as he helped her up the rest of the way.

"Hermione, my Salazar," Pansy called from the top landing. "Do you need to get some exercise? How out of shape are you?"

Draco knew she was speaking in jest, but the look on Hermione's face as she stared down at the stairs showed him that she didn't. He remembered seeing Hermione exercising in the common room that one morning and he knew she had to be doing it every day or night in her dorm room.

What if Pansy's words made it difficult for her to eat?

"Pansy," Draco muttered, grabbing her elbow and pulling her back as Blaise and Hermione entered ahead of them. "Try not to say stuff like that."

Pansy's brows twitched together. "Huh? Stuff like—like the exercise thing? I was only joking."

"I know, but she doesn't really know how we joke, so let's just—" He sliced a hand across his throat. "Yeah?"

"All right." Then, Pansy gave him a disturbed look. "She's so thin, though. Does she think—"

"Stop," Draco hissed. "Don't say anything about it. Don't even think about it. Just leave off it, all right?"

"Okay, okay. Shite." She pouted, and they headed inside.

The way the hosts and waiters scrambled to get them seated was hilarious enough to have all four of them holding back laughter. They seemed to remember Pansy and Blaise, and were all too thrilled to welcome " _the_ Draco Malfoy from The Netherlands and _the_ Hermione Granger from Brazil," and the group was given the exact booth Pansy promised. The girls sat on the inside, right beside the window, and the boys took their respective places beside them.

Once they ordered a round of drinks, they settled into conversation.

"Ambiance is good," Draco said, gesturing to the fancy chandeliers, dim golden lighting, and vaulted ceilings.

"Our parents would all approve, I'm sure," Blaise said, wrapping his arm around Pansy's shoulders. "Except maybe her mum."

"No, my mother would complain the crystals in the chandeliers were too cheap," Pansy said with a grin.

Draco glanced at her, remembering how Hermione had said something about Pansy's mother being in Azkaban that one time. The two girls didn't react. Hermione just gazed out the window, and Pansy gave Blaise a dreamy look. The waiter then brought them some bread and their wine glasses.

"I'm glad to see you two getting on so well," Draco said after they'd all made their orders from the menu. "Hermione and Pansy."

"I have to say, I am as well," Blaise added, sipping his wine. "Draco and I were waiting for you two to start casting hexes."

Hermione and Pansy looked at one another and then burst into a fit of giggles. The sort that implied they were sharing an inside joke.

"Of course not," Hermione said around her laughter. "I think we both kinda came to the realization that it's better to put the negativity in the past where it belongs. I forgive her for the tea, and everything else, and we're good now."

"Oh, yeah?" Draco asked, bringing his glass to his lips.

"Yes," Pansy said, and she rested her head on Blaise's shoulders. "Plus, won't it be fun to do these sorts of outings together from now on? Four makes a much better square than three."

Draco blinked and studied Hermione's profile, thinking about how there was a high possibility that that could come true. If they had an eternity together, they could travel all over the world and eat in restaurants just like this one, with the sun setting over rivers and expensive wine in glasses.

They could _be_ something.

"So, are you guys friends now?" Blaise asked.

The girls smiled at each other and let out another shared giggle.

"Yeah," Pansy said. "I'd say so."

"We are," Hermione said. "And— _oh_! Pansy! That ring is _beautiful_."

Pansy, whose finger was sporting the brand new ring that Blaise had procured for her from the jewelry store, set her wine glass down so she could extend her hand to show it to Hermione. It was a large diamond, princess cut, and surrounded by smaller gems. It was exactly as big as Pansy Parkinson could dream it to be.

"When did you get that?" Hermione asked, admiring it with a wide-eyed expression. "You didn't have it on earlier."

"Blaise snuck it onto my finger at some point before we sat down," Pansy said with a wide smile, fluttering her fingers. "D'you love it? Oh, d'you just positively _adore_ it?"

"I do," Hermione breathed, taking Pansy's proffered hand so she could inspect the ring up close. "I love jewelry, but I've never really worn any. I've never gotten a gift like this from a wizard before."

"Not even from Weasley?" Blaise's eyebrows shot up.

"Well, as you know, their family doesn't have much money."

"So?" Blaise's face contorted with distaste. "My family's filthy rich and the first gift I ever got for Pansy was a bouquet of hand-picked flowers from a garden at Hogwarts."

"You mean, stolen," Draco said with another smirk. "From Professor Sprout's personal garden."

"And it didn't cost me a sickle."

Everyone laughed except Hermione, but Draco was the only one who noticed.

"Well, he never got me a single gift," she said. "I think Harry charmed a wire into a bracelet for Ginny this Summer. Or was it an anklet . . . ? I can't remember. D'you know Ron forgot my birthday this year?"

"Ghastly," Pansy said. "Draco doesn't forget birthdays, so you've got nothing to worry about there. And he's a _fantastic_ gift giver. Expect flowers, chocolates, jewelry, and travel for the duration of your relationship. Though knowing you, I'd say to expect a personalized Library in the Manor."

Hermione didn't correct her, and Draco's heart soared.

"Oh, even for his friends," Blaise added, giving Draco a roguish wink. "Furnished my entire bedroom at home for my sixteenth. Totally unnecessary, but then, he never does anything by halves."

Hermione let out a small laugh. "I'm not the type to think I deserve gifts and nice things, but a stolen flower bouquet would have been nice. A personalized Library? Even better. But no—Ron never would have put that deep of thought into a gift."

" _Witches deserve nice things."_

Draco dropped his hand to her opposite shoulder, so that his arm was around her just like Blaise was around Pansy's. He trailed his knuckles along her upper arm, wondering if she could feel it through the sleeve of her coat.

"That's because the Weaselbee hasn't any fine taste," Draco grumbled, and he rested his elbow on the top of the booth back behind her head. He propped his temple against his fist. "Money's got nothing to do with it—goblin-made jewelry sells for affordable prices, even for a Weasley."

"Yes, I—I know," Hermione said, her tone somewhat wistful as she sat back and her side settled against his. "I always thought perhaps he didn't think I deserved that sort of thought."

Draco had Hermione's gift in his pocket, but he wasn't going to give it to her yet. It was too soon. He wanted to wait for the opportune moment. He wasn't sure when that would be, but when it came, he would be ready.

"Every witch deserves a deep level of thought," Pansy said, and she smiled up at Blaise. "Just because you haven't found it with one wizard, doesn't mean there won't be another."

Blaise exchanged glances with Draco. Hermione hummed and looked out the window again.

"Let's tuck into this bread," Blaise said, doling out the small porcelain plates that had been waiting at the table when they sat down. He reached for some bread and put it on his plate. "They take awhile to bring the meals out here."

As everyone began spreading butter on their bread and dipping it in olive oil, Draco noticed that Hermione wasn't eating any. He didn't say anything, though. It was just bread, and she'd ordered quite a large pasta and sausage meal. As long as she ate that, it would be fine. As long as she ate and kept it down, everything would be okay.

But when they finally did bring the food, Draco realized with dismay that Hermione had no intention of ingesting any food.

She took a large bite of her meal and pulled a face. Pansy and Blaise were busy marveling over the taste of their meals, and Draco was chewing a bite of his. He watched as Hermione speared some more noodles and sausage with her fork and took a second, slower bite.

"You don't like it?" he murmured.

She gave him a guilty look. "It's the—the sauce. It tastes strange."

"The sauce?" Their eyes met and somehow, he knew she was lying.

"Yes, it's not . . . I just don't like it."

"Did you want to try mine? I can switch you?"

She averted her eyes. He could tell she wanted to say no, but she used her fork to take a bite of his food before he could really think on it. She ate it, chewing and staring at the table.

Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head.

"Picky eater, hm?" Pansy said.

"Yeah," Hermione said with a sigh. "I tried them both, but they're just not for me."

"It's no wonder you look so fantastic," Pansy said, and then she took a bite of her food. "You've got the sort of willpower I'd kill for."

Draco wanted to tell her that willpower had nothing to do with it, but Hermione's leg bouncing under the table told him it was best he keep his mouth shut. He ate with his right hand and curved his left hand over her thigh to steady her.

"You're really not going to eat _anything_?" Blaise said, and he gave her a perturbed look.

"I don't really want to make you guys wait for an entirely new meal to come," Hermione said, her tone polite as she hugged her arms around herself.

There was a bit of silence as Blaise and Pansy continued to eat, and Draco found that he couldn't take his eyes off of Hermione. He was concerned. She'd eaten breakfast and kept it down, but it was suppertime and if they were going dancing after this, she needed energy. And what sort of man would he be if he let her starve right in front of him?

Godric, this whole thing was such a mess. He had no idea what he was doing, and no idea how to help her. His heart was racing and he was so Salazar-damned worried about her that he moved on instinct and lowered his lips to her ear.

"Please eat."

She went rigid and didn't lift her eyes from the table. He saw one of her hands go to her stomach, where she cradled it almost like she was with child. She gulped, looking nervous.

"Hermione, please eat for me, okay?"

She exhaled and picked up her fork. Her leg began to bounce again, so he squeezed her thigh. He didn't know if it was to get her to stop or just to let her know he was there, but she stopped moving it.

Another bite entered her mouth.

When she lifted her gaze from the table, Draco could see the familiar fear there in her eyes. Still, a pride swelled within his chest that he wasn't entirely sure he had a right to feel. He was _proud_ of her for eating, when he had no authority over her to _be_ proud. He had no right to make rules for her or to put her under his care at all, beyond the fact that their life forces might be bonded.

But sitting there, looking into each other's eyes as though they were alone, he _was_ proud.

It felt like she was putting all of her trust in him that it would be okay.

He pressed his lips to her ear again, kissing it. She ate some more.

"Good girl," he whispered.

And he meant it.

"Changed your mind about the sauce, then?" Blaise said, raising his voice to an octave that showed Draco they weren't as secretive as they were trying to be.

"It's not so bad after all," Hermione said, and then she took another measured, careful bite.

"Oh, good."

The waiter approached their table with an apology in the slope of his shoulders. Apparently—as Blaise and Pansy had predicted— _somehow_ the paparazzi had been called. The sidewalk in front of the restaurant was littered with waiting photographers. An expensive bottle of champagne was gifted to them, compliments of the restaurant owner to make up for what was sure to be a chaotic exit.

They spent the rest of their time in the restaurant talking, laughing, and drinking. As time went on, Draco saw Hermione relaxing and eating a bit more normally. Eventually, her plate—as well as everyone else's—was empty. Around seven-o-clock, when they were all tipsy and riding high on positive spirits, they decided it was time to go to the club that Blaise had picked out. They paid, and then headed out.

Blaise and Pansy took to the steps without so much as a care in the world, waving to the photographers and answering their obnoxious questions as though they really were famous.

"Ready to go down there, oh glorious singer?" Draco asked, holding his hand out to Hermione.

"Can't you just carry me?"

"Why, yes. Yes, I can."

He bent his knees, wrapped his arm around her thigh, and carried her with her elbows on his shoulders all the way down the steps to the tune of countless flashbulbs going off. It was ridiculous, given that the Muggles were photographing people they _thought_ were famous but in actuality were not, but Draco loved it.

Hermione laughed merrily, as though no matter how hard she tried to stop, her mirth was too infectious. Like it was spreading throughout her body the way venom does a wound.

He loved that, too.

* * *

The club Blaise had chosen was in the heart of London, on a street full of other party-goers.

The sidewalks were crowded and while the streetlights, pubs, and clubs were decorated for Christmas, everyone else seemed to have missed the memo that it was Winter. Short skirts and cropped tops were abound as blood buzzing hot with alcohol ran through countless veins.

Something caught Hermione's eye across the street and she stopped walking. The tug of her hand caused Draco to turn to look at her. She pointed.

"What's that?"

Pansy peered across the street. "Oh, Blaise—that's that venue we went to this Summer. Do you remember?"

"Oh, yeah!" Blaise put his hands on his hips. "What've they got going on? A show?"

"Looks like it," Draco said, gesturing to the line of people wrapped around the building. They were covered in tattoos like he and Blaise, and wore varying shades of black, grey, and white. Their hair was colorful and wild and many of them had piercings.

"Why don't we go there instead?" Pansy said. Then, she looked at Draco and Hermione. "It's Muggle music that they play there. They call it 'metal'. It can be frightening, but it's _so_ fun. Do you want to go?"

"I know what that type of music is," Hermione said, looking astonished. "I'm surprised you guys like it."

"It's like the music they listen to at that tattoo shop we went to back in January," Blaise said out of the corner of his mouth to Draco, who nodded in understanding.

He hadn't minded that music and thought an entire concert of it might be interesting. It wasn't like he was much of a dancer, anyway so avoiding the club was fine by him.

"Yeah, let's do it," he said with a shrug.

"Without tickets?" Hermione said.

"Nothing a little magic can't handle, yeah?" Blaise nudged Draco. "If everyone's on board, let's fucking do it."

"But we're wearing heels," Pansy protested.

Blaise snapped his fingers. Pansy's shoes transfigured themselves into trainers. Draco followed suit, knowing it was best they didn't take their wands out in front of hundreds of Muggles. Hermione let out a soft cry as she dropped four inches to the ground and found herself also in trainers.

Problem solved.

They crossed the street and went around the side of the building, which had music with heavy guitars and drumbeats spilling out from an open door barred by a bouncer. Draco made eye contact with several of the people in line, mostly men. It was hard not to pay attention to the fact that they were staring at Pansy and Hermione, their eyes roving their bodies like they were pieces of meat.

It was so normal that it was almost laughable. It actually felt like they were on a real double date.

Except they sort-of were, weren't they?

Blaise and Pansy launched into an excitable retelling of the concert they'd attended at this very building before, the two of them playing off of each other's memories with smiles and exclamations. Draco and Hermione listened in silence.

Suddenly, Hermione turned so she was standing in front of Draco. Before he could react, she was unbuttoning his coat. He managed a sound of surprise, and then he felt her hands sliding along his waist, inside the coat. He chuckled as she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest, turning her face towards Blaise and Pansy.

 _She must be cold,_ he thought to himself.

Draco slid his own arms around her, tucking her head beneath his chin as he pretended to hear what his friends were saying.

He felt overwhelmed with an emotion that he had no name for, and no idea what to do with. She just felt so _right_ in his embrace that it was sickening. It absolutely _gutted_ him to think about the fact that she wanted to reverse the bond. He understood it, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

As the line moved forward, they kept hold of each other—Draco with his arm around her shoulders and Hermione with both of hers around his waist. There was a girl with pink hair in front of them who kept sending looks in Draco's direction that could only be considered flirtatious and though she had a pretty face and interesting tattoos crawling up her neck, he couldn't be arsed to care.

He was content with who he was here with.

When they made it into the venue, they saw a hallway with a couple of doors that opened on the right to a pub. At the end of the dark hallway, Draco could see part of a large room with green, red, and white lights that cut through the shadows.

One of the doors led a coat check. Since it was warm inside and bound to get warmer, the four teens dropped their coats off with a woman behind the door. Then, they turned and followed the crowd of Muggles into the concert room.

The music that was playing over the speakers was not coming from the band onstage. Those band members were setting their instruments up while the already full room continued to fill more. It was clear from some of the decorations that this was some sort of show with multiple bands for Christmas, and there were an uncountable number of people with Santa hats on. The overall atmosphere was dark yet vibrant with excitement.

It was so Muggle that Draco wanted to revert back to his younger self and make fun of them, but he knew it was because he was nervous. He'd only ever been to one concert, if you could call it that, and it was at the Yule Ball. This was . . . Different. He didn't know what this Muggle music was like.

"Let's stand towards the front," Pansy said loudly so she could be heard. "I think it's gonna start soon. Salazar, we got lucky leaving the restaurant when we did."

"The front?" Draco said, eyeing the crowd. It was bound to get cramped. "Are you sure?"

"Draco, don't even worry about it," Blaise said, one hand on Pansy's shoulder and the other on Draco's. "We're tall, so we'll be fine."

"But what about the girls?"

Hermione's hand slipped out of his as Pansy grabbed her bare arm and whisked her through the crowd towards the left side of the stage. Blaise remained, leading Draco at a slower pace.

"Stand behind them. Trust me—it'll be fine. You just haven't been to a show like this before," Blaise explained. "Most of the guys do one of two things—the beat the shite out of each other in the center of the crowd, or they stand behind their women. The girls dance or do whatever they do. All you have to do is stand behind Granger and listen to the music."

Draco made a grumbling noise and said nothing else.

They made it to where the girls were and stood behind them. Blaise positioned himself with his hands on Pansy's hips, looking out over the crowd as though it fascinated him to see so many people in one room. Hermione and Pansy were chattering on and on, talking about the crowd, the stage, the decorations, and how excited they were to hear the music.

Draco was interested to see what Hermione would act like. She didn't seem like the type to like concerts or dancing. He wondered if she was a walking contradiction, or exactly the quiet, bookish witch she'd always presented herself to be.

He glanced around. They were surrounded by people on all sides, including some girls in skimpy clothing to the left and some burly men covered head-to-toe in tattoos and piercings to the right.

When he saw the men, he pushed the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbows. Something about the way they were leaning in to talk to each other, laughing, and eyeing Hermione and Pansy made him feel like he needed them to know he wasn't just some schoolboy. He was taller than them, but nowhere near as built as they were.

But he was covered in tattoos, too.

Soon, the lights went down, cheers arose, electric guitars began to be strummed, and the music began.

 _Holy fuck_.

It was an experience.

Draco didn't know how to explain the music. A hybrid mixture of singing and screaming, it had the ability to make every hair on his body stand on end, his heart race, and his head bob at the same time. Everyone was moving in that room: the audience _and_ the band members. Hands were in the air, heads were bobbing with a vehemence that Draco had never seen before, and girls were shaking their rear ends in a way that would have given every Pureblood witch and wizard in Britain a heart attack.

He looked at Blaise, who fell into peals of laughter when he saw the look on Draco's face.

In front of him, Pansy and Hermione were both tossing their hair back and forth, throwing their arms into the air so they could move their bodies freely in tune to the music. Hermione possessed a freedom that he'd only ever seen in his dreams—and at one point she spun mid-jump and he saw her smiling with delight.

She was having fun.

The crowd had grown thicker, almost as though the moment the music started, people began to materialize from thin air. They pressed forward, closer to the stage as they reached for the band members like they were royalty, jostling everyone around them.

In the center of the crowd, it was just as Blaise had said: a large circle had opened up, and there were men spinning around in wild circles, hitting each other, and shoving one another in time to the instrumentals.

Wild.

Draco was forced forward into Hermione's back. He placed his hands on the railing on either side of her, boxing her in, but it didn't stop her. The heavier the music got, the more she danced. If he weren't so tall, she'd probably smack him in the face with her hair from how hard she was tossing it.

By the time the first song ended, Draco was in a state of shock. He didn't dislike the music—he was just frightened of the strange desire it gave him to throw aside all decorum and just . . . Go mental.

Blaise and Pansy seemed to share the sentiment, because they were just as rowdy as everyone else. And Hermione, little Hermione was a firecracker the way she completely let go.

She turned to him, grinning, breathless, and swaying in-between the cage of his arms. He had only a moment to meet her eyes before she wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and yanked him down to her level. His heart skipped a beat as she yelled into his ear.

"I need water!"

He turned his head towards her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I just need some water! Can you manage a spell without anyone seeing?"

Draco nodded. He pulled her close to him and wandlessly cast a spell to conjure up a cup between them. She was the one to do the _auguamenti_ , and then she downed the cup in one gulp. Draco vanished the cup and then asked her again if she was okay.

"I'm fine," she said, beaming up at him. "Do you like the music?"

He shrugged. "I guess. I can tell you do."

"I'll dance to anything, but yes—I like this kind—"

The next song began, the noise cutting her off and the lights beginning to flash red and green. Hermione was like a moth to a flame, whipping around so she could clap her hands and cheer with everyone else. Draco moved to stand beside her, leaning on the metal railing so he could watch the performance for a bit. Beside him, he could feel her moving about, jumping and dancing just like the first song.

He had to admit—he sort of wanted to dance, too.

But sweet Salazar, he hadn't danced since Fourth Year. And that day had ended in a kiss and a slap. He didn't think it would be hard, but he was one of the tallest guys in there, and he didn't know if he would be stared at, or make it more difficult for people behind him to see. There were a _lot_ of people behind him.

Suddenly, a hand covered his. He looked to the right and saw Hermione was saying something to him. He leaned down to hear her.

"Stop overthinking it! Dance with me!"

He glanced at Blaise, as though he needed permission, and saw that he and Pansy were just part of the crowd. They were dancing. They'd come out specifically to dance tonight. So had Draco.

Why was he so anxious?

"Come on!" she said, still smiling.

"Nah, that's okay," he shouted back, grimacing. "I don't think I know how."

"Here," she said, "I'll show you. Stand beside me and hold onto the railing."

He did.

"Okay, watch—" She pointed to the drummer. "When you see him raise both arms to stop drumming—and it'll only be for a second—that's a breakdown. It's the perfect part to start banging your head."

"Banging my head?!" he cried, alarmed.

"Just listen to me! When you see him do it, time it so that when his drumsticks hit the drums and the music keeps going, you start moving your head forward and back. If you want it to be more fun, you put the force of your upper body behind it. See, like this."

Draco watched as Hermione did it, her curls flailing backwards and forwards as she "banged her head," whatever that meant. He was just enamored by the sight of her being so vivacious. After months of seeing her act like a ghost of her former self, it was nice to see the girl from his dreams.

"Okay, you try."

Still feeling somewhat awkward, he did as she had done. It was weird, especially given that he'd never really done anything like it before, but the longer he did it, the more he realized it made the music sound better. And he could actually _feel_ the music in a way that he hadn't noticed before. Every beat of the drums reflected in his heart. The strum of the guitars vibrated through his fingers. The vocalists' alternating screaming and singing felt like liquid gold in his ears.

All right. He conceded defeat. This was fun as fuck.

The "breakdown" came, and Hermione and him exchanged glances. She was smiling, wider than he'd seen her smile in a long time, and she let go of the railing. Right as the drummer slammed his drumsticks on the canvas of his drums, she threw her hands up into the air and jumped up and down to the tune of the music. She threw her head back and forth like her life depended on it.

So Draco did the same.

They danced together all the way through to the end of the band's set, hardly stopping to even take a breath. At one point, he and Blaise vibed off of one another, and the girls held hands while they jumped. It felt so . . .

Normal.

He was happy.

* * *

When the set was over and the second band was preparing, the four teens decided to go to the bar and get some drinks. The girls darted ahead like pixies with wings, and Blaise and Draco followed after them.

"She looks like she's having a blast," Blaise said. "I had no idea little Miss Prissy could move like that."

"Me, neither," Draco said, running his hand backward through his sweat-dampened hair. "I had no idea _I_ could."

"You threw down," Blaise said in a joking tone. "That's a term I heard some Muggle say, so don't ask me if I got it right."

In the pub section, he and Draco each took one shot, but Pansy was adamant that she and Hermione take two. Draco ordered some water cups to combat it, which they downed faster than he could blink.

And then the two girls dashed off again, their fingers intertwined like First Years.

"All right," Blaise said, chuckling. "They really _are_ friends now."

"I've never seen Hermione so alive. She's usually so dour, believe it or not."

"Not," Blaise protested. "I've seen her laughing and carrying on at the Gryffindor table plenty of times, even this year."

"That's different. There's carrying on, and then there's _carrying on_."

"Well, it all depends on what you think. Do you like it?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Do I like what?"

"Hermione Granger's version of _carrying on_?"

Draco said nothing, knowing exactly what Blaise was asking. It was one thing for Draco to wallow in his fancies in the safety of his mind, but aloud to his friend? He didn't think Blaise would be against it, but Draco didn't like talking about his emotions with anyone.

Except his mother.

"I'm having a good time," was all Draco deigned to say. He heard the music of the second band beginning. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumbs. "You wanna get back in there, or . . . ?"

"Wait a second," Blaise said, touching Draco's arm. "Before I forget, what was that display in the restaurant?"

Draco's smile faded. "What display?"

"With the sauce, the picky eating—that whole thing. What was that?"

"It was exactly what you saw. She's a picky eater."

Blaise scoffed. "What does she do? Pick air? Draco, she's as light as a feather."

"She's fine. She eats, she just has some hang-ups and likes to control it. It's not an issue."

The words escaped his mouth and he wanted to drag them back.

Why could he never keep Hermione's secrets? Was that why he was scared to tell her about his mother?

If he couldn't trust himself, how could he trust anyone else?

Blaise raised one eyebrow. "Pansy thinks she starves herself. I told her that was barmy, since that would be mental and it's Hermione 'Golden Girl' Granger we're talking about here. Maybe I was too hasty."

Draco's mind reeled. He wanted to kick himself.

"She's fine, and she doesn't do that," he lied, unable to look Blaise in the eyes. "She's just picky. Now, do you want to leave your witch in there alone, or . . . ?"

"Oh, shite! You're right!"

* * *

They booked it back into the room and started the insanely difficult process of weaving through the crowd and skirting the circle of shoving men at the center. It was dark save for some flashing blue lights, but Draco was able to see well enough.

As they made it back to their former spot—which the girls had reclaimed—Draco saw that the space behind them was not empty. Standing right behind an oblivious Hermione and Pansy were the two burly men with tattoos that had been looking at her earlier. They were bobbing their heads to the music but were _clearly_ ogling the girls' backsides.

Oh, fuck that. Absolutely not. _Absolutely_ not.

Draco felt his hands flexing into fists at his sides as anger hot as fire spread along his veins. He wanted to rip his wand out of his sleeve and hex them, but that would ruin Hermione's night. And since he hadn't even dealt with the Weaselbee because Hermione seemed to not want him to, he wasn't about to lose his temper on two random men who barely reached his shoulder.

Blaise shot him a look. "I think I've got an _Imperio_ in me. You think the Ministry's still got a trace on our wands?"

"Unnecessary," Draco said. "Just move in front of them."

Without waiting, he pushed forward and shoved his way in front of the men. The one behind Hermione was so close to her that the man had to stumble backward to avoid touching him.

Draco wrapped one hand around the railing and slipped a possessive arm around Hermione's waist from behind, practically snatching her out of midair. At first, she stiffened, but then he dropped a quick kiss to her temple and she relaxed.

The men moved to the side and due to the curvature of the stage, Draco could see them clearly where he stood with _his_ witch in his arms. They were sneering at both him and Blaise, who was dancing with Pansy again.

Blaise never had been as protective as Draco, but that could be because he was mentally sound. Draco . . . Wasn't.

Hermione tipped her head back, her eyes half-lidded and a dizzy smile on her face. She said something that he couldn't hear but was able to discern from watching her mouth move.

"There you are! I missed you, you cheeky ponce!"

"Cheeky— _what_?"

He laughed out of sheer incredulity, but stopped when she rested the back of her head against the front of his shoulder and reached her left hand up to squeeze his chin and pull him down closer. There was a look on her face that he'd seen before in other witch's eyes. A desire that burned bright like the flashing lights in the venue.

And she would have whatever she wanted.

He held the men's glowering gazes as he turned his head to press his lips to hers. He'd meant the kiss to be quick, but apparently, Hermione had other plans in mind. Maybe it was the atmosphere and the music. Maybe it was the alcohol he tasted on her lips.

Who knew?

Hermione curved her arm around his neck and shoved her tongue into his mouth in a kiss that sizzled all the way down to the soles of his boots. She tangled her fingers in the hair at the back of his head so that he couldn't straighten his spine, pressing her back hard against his front.

Having never kissed anyone from behind like this, with the music slamming in his ears, it was an otherworldly experience.

Draco wished he could go back to Fourth Year. Back to that alcove and that frenzied, angry kiss that he'd stolen. He'd do everything different and make the right choices.

He wished he would have told his mother the truth when she sat down on his bed the Summer of Third Year and asked about his fever. He should have left Granger and her friends alone on that hill in Third Year. If only he had tried harder to make friends with Potter.

If he could go back, he would do whatever he could to contribute to changing the course of events that had led to her nightmare in Paris so that he didn't have to feel so guilty about getting to kiss her now.

When they broke apart, he was panting and dazed. He tried to make eye contact with her, but she whirled around and resumed dancing as though nothing had happened.

Oh.

She was tipsy.

Draco reduced his dancing to the bobbing of his head, a little concerned that if he got too into the music, then Miss Tipsy would go careening into the crowd. He kept one hand on her waist even as she jumped, and the other wrapped over the railing.

For a brief moment, he wondered what her friends would say if they could see this. If they could see this entire _day_. Potter, with his sarcastic quips and the Weaselbee, with his red-faced rage.

What would _Theo_ say?

Eventually, the second set was over and the third band was making their transition. Draco glanced around, but it seemed that Blaise and Pansy had disappeared into the crowd.

"I think I need some fresh air," Hermione shouted into his ear. She sounded as faint as she looked.

"Want to step outside?" he asked. "The cold air will sober you up."

She nodded, so he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd of Muggles. He tugged her in front of him, moving to hold her shoulders so he could steer her out of the room and back out into the entrance hallway.

The music sounded somewhat muffled out here, and the sounds of the bar were louder. Draco could see Blaise and Pansy standing by some stools, downing their shots in front of an eagle-eyed barkeep.

"Is that the coat check door?" Hermione asked, her voice sounding far away from the music's assault on his eardrums.

"No, it—it looks like it's the stairs to the roof."

"The roof? I've never been on a roof before."

"Me neither."

A moment of silence passed, during which they cast several glances around. No one was watching them—not the patrons, the workers, or the bouncers. Draco liked to set the rules, not follow them.

The look they shared was very, very Slytherin.

* * *

After retrieving their coats from the coat check, they doubled back and snuck up the stairs to the roof.

It wasn't easy. They had to go up an indoor flight of stairs, which led to an outside set of stairs. Those stairs went to a landing with a metal grate that blocked the rest of the roof. But the railing that lined the entirety of the roof continued on past them, so Draco realized that if they wanted to be daring, they could simply climb around it.

Hermione wasn't drunk, but she was inebriated enough to want to do some climbing.

When they hopped down onto the roof on the other side of the grate, Hermione gave a squeal of delight and skipped across it to the opposite side. She leaned over the railing and looked down at the street below. Draco followed her, the light from the city warring with the light from the stars above, and he stood beside her.

The venue really wasn't that tall of a building, but it was taller than the other buildings on the street. They could see a large section of London where they stood. Being up here alone with her, cold as it was, was quite nice. She wasn't shivering, so he figured the alcohol in her system was helping to warm her.

He cast a quick wandless warming charm over them both, just in case.

"This is the second strangest Christmas holiday I've ever had," Hermione said, holding the railing and leaning back. "Last year's takes the cake, though."

"Hm," he said. "Why?"

"Well, I was in a tent last Christmas. Traveling all over the place, looking for Voldemort's stupid _soul canisters_."

Draco snorted around a laugh. "Mine wasn't any better last year. Voldemort was in my house."

"Sitting around your tree opening gifts, was he?"

"He really liked his stocking."

They were both trying to stifle their laughter. Draco thought the mental image of Lord Voldemort accepting Christmas presents from his parents was so amusing that he had tears in his eyes. He grinned down at her.

"So, I take it I'm the reason this Christmas is strange?"

She studied him. "I'd have to say yes. But not in a bad way."

"Is it in a good way?"

"I'm not sure yet. But it's definitely strange. What are you doing on Christmas Day?" she asked, folding her arms and leaning on them on the railing.

He followed suit. "I'm leaving tomorrow for a family friend's home. I'll be doing an interview for an internship and staying for Christmas."

"Oh." He may have been misunderstanding it, but it sounded like there was a hint of dismay in her tone. "That sounds lovely."

"What are _you_ doing for Christmas?" he asked.

"Erm . . ." She smiled, toothy and bright. "This, I guess. I'm sure I'm still invited to The Burrow in spite of everything. I mean, Harry will be there, and Ginny . . ."

"You don't sound enthused."

"Of course not," she said, her voice lowering. "Ronald and I aren't getting along at all. I love Harry, Ginny, and the family, but Ron is . . . Well, he's quite cruel lately."

A dark look crossed Draco's face. Every day, he woke up wanting to beat the living shite out of one Ronald Weasley and every night, he went to bed having not done so.

"Have you spoken to Potter about it?" Draco asked. "Surely he could sit the Weasel down for a chat."

Hermione shrugged. "We send letters back and forth, but he's a boy, you know. He doesn't like to talk about my relationship woes, especially given the awkwardness of us all three being friends. I think he probably has that same pact with Ronald regarding Ginny."

Draco said, "It's a strange world when you can't go to your friends to talk about things."

"It's a strange world where I can go to Draco Malfoy instead," she said with a laugh. In the silence that followed, she gave him a curious look. "I _can_ go to you, can't I?"

He gave her a half-smile. "I'm your _soulmate,_ aren't I?"

"To be determined." But she was smiling, too.

Draco studied her face like an art critic, watching the way the ghost of her smile remained as she gazed out at the city. Watched memories he would probably never be privy to flashing across the glassy surface of her honey-brown eyes. Her honey-brown eyes, which reflected the Christmas lights adorning the buildings.

"I guess now," she said, breaking the reverent silence, "is when you ask me if I followed the rules yesterday."

He hadn't planned on it.

"I guess so," he said. "Did you follow the rules yesterday?"

"No," she said plainly. She looked up at him with a silent challenge in her eyes. "What are you gonna do about it? Are you going to go to McGonagall?"

Like a crack of lightning, he felt his anger strike him within seconds. Just as fast, he wrangled it back into a box inside of him and spoke to her in a calm voice.

"What, you just broke them intentionally to see what I would do?"

"Maybe."

Draco narrowed his eyes, his mind turning as he tried to read into her like one of her books. What was her angle?

"The rules aren't there for you to break them, Granger. They're there so I don't go to McGonagall."

"Aw." She spun so that she was leaning back against the railing, her elbows propping her up. Her head tipped back, her curls falling away from her shoulders. "I thought it was because you cared about me."

What the fuck was her problem?

Was she angry with him? But what for? What could he possibly have done?

"Watch the attitude," he said, his upper lip curling. "You only had one shot, so if this is your way of pretending to be sozzled, you're doing a poor job of it."

"I'm not drunk," she spat. "I'm brassed off. And I've been holding it in _all_ day."

"What the _fucking_ bloody Hell could I possibly have done to you, huh?" he yelled, throwing one hand up. "I'm quite possibly the only person in your life who's honest with you—the only person who knows the side of you you're too scared to show everyone else. And you're—what? Pushing me away because I won't let you throw up your fucking food in the loo?"

She breathed a mirthless laugh and crossed her arms over her chest. "You've got nerve, Draco Malfoy. You've got some pretty, Pureblood nerve to be saying that to me. You're the one who pushes _me_ away. All these weeks, and I know almost _nothing_ about you." Arms still crossed, she leaned in closer and looked him dead in the eyes. "I only know what I've read in the papers."

She stormed away, heading back towards the metal grate.

Draco cursed and ran both hands through his hair. What was even happening right now? How could everything go from being so good to so bad in a matter of minutes?

Did she know he was holding back about his mother?

But he couldn't tell her that. He just _couldn't_. And it wasn't like he owed it to her, anyway. Yeah, he knew things about her that were treasured and secret, and he knew about Paris, but he hadn't exactly _asked_ for this. He didn't ask to be pulled into that memory and he'd made the best of it when he had.

Godric, there wasn't a single other witch on the entire planet that had ever infuriated him more. That had forced him to feel emotions that had only ever brought him pain in the past. Emotions that had brought him fear and heartache. In some cases, detention.

There wasn't a single witch on the planet that could make him feel so fucking alive except for Hermione Granger.

And that was exactly why he couldn't let her walk away.

"Wait!" he called.

Her trainers continued to tap against the stone.

He whirled around.

"I said fucking _wait_ , Hermione!" She stopped and turned to glare at him. He pointed at the ground in front of him. "Get your little arse back here _now_ and talk to me."

She stomped her way back over.

" _Why_ are you so angry with me?" he asked.

"You should already know why."

"Well, I don't, so." He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and shrugged his shoulders. "Enlighten me."

Something clicked in her jaw. He could see it on her face—she was holding something in that she'd been wanting to say.

"If you've got something to say, just say it!" he cried. "If you can't tell me when you're angry now, how are you going to do it when we're fifty-seven years and ten percent of the way through eternity together?!"

"Allegedly," she growled.

"Fuck's sake, just spit it out!"

"All right, fine! I'm angry because no matter how you want to spin it, the rules are there to control me," she said loudly with ire coloring her tone. "You want to control me for whatever reasons you have—because we're bonded, because you care—I don't know. I don't know, but you made the rules because you wanted to. Because it makes you feel powerful to have the final say in what I do with my body."

"That's ridiculous! Why would I want to control your body?"

" _You all do_!"

Draco stared at her in shock, his mouth open as he tried to figure out how to respond to her. There was a sliver of guilt in her eyes, so heavy there that she averted them from his. And when he saw her shoulders slump down, he realized what she meant.

His heart wrenched in his chest.

"You all do," she whispered, and she slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat. "And I don't know what I want to do with it. Which makes me an easy target, doesn't it?"

Draco moved away from the railing, facing her. "I'm not targeting you. We're bond— _allegedly_ bonded. And we experienced something together that's pretty polarizing, when you think about it. It could have gone one of two ways." He held her gaze. "Lucky for you, it made me care about you."

She sneered. "Because me getting raped in an alleyway was the only way to inspire compassion in you."

He cringed, but he didn't look away. Not when he could see her lower lip trembling.

"Why do you say such horrid things if you can't handle hearing them?" he murmured, taking another step closer.

"Because I . . ." Her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. She looked down. "Because I deserve to hear them."

Draco's heart lurched again. "You deserve good things, Granger. You deserve to hear _good_ things—you don't deserve the horrible things that have happened to you."

She didn't say anything.

He didn't wait for her to crumble. He pulled her into his arms, embracing her with an arm around her back and a hand cupping the back of her head. She shivered, but he wasn't sure if it was because she was weeping or because she was cold.

"I made the rules because I care about you," he said. "And it's got nothing to do with a fucking star bond, or Paris, or the Weaselbee, or any of that. That's all separate. Yeah, I haven't told you much about myself. But you've told me plenty about you, and it's enough that I care if you live or die. So why don't you let me give a fuck, so I can make sure you stay alive, yeah?"

"If it's separate—" She sniffled and pulled her head back, her cheeks streaked with tears and her brow furrowed. "If it's separate, then what does it mean?"

"What do you mean, what does it mean?" he asked, his hand moving from the back of her head to the side of her neck.

"If you getting to know me and me telling you things means you care about me, then what does the rest of it mean? The bond? My problems with Ron? Paris? My eating habits? What's the point of all this pain if something painless is as simple as conversation?"

Draco blinked, having not expected her to put it like that. He frowned as he thought about the answer, running his fingers downward through her curls absentmindedly.

"I don't know yet," he finally said. Their eyes met. "I don't know if there's a point, an ending, a moral, a fucking answer. I just know that I care. The rules are there so you don't have to suffer alone. I did that for years and all it got me was an inability to discuss my emotions and a shiteload of tattoos."

Hermione giggled, raising her hand to wipe her eyes. Her amusement caused him to chuckle, too, and soon they were both laughing. She extricated herself from his arms and went back to the railing. The faint smile was back, this time on both of their faces.

"You never did ask me again, did you?" he said as he turned back to the railing also.

"Ask you what?" She lifted onto the tips of her toes so she could peer down over the edge of the building at the people stumbling about drunkenly on the sidewalk below. Draco put his arm around her waist to steady her, standing closer.

"You asked me to _obliviate_ you when we woke up, remember? Did that change?"

He felt her body going rigid and it took her a few moments to respond to him.

"I haven't decided yet. Part of me wants it more than anything. To forget would be a waking dream, to be honest. Sometimes I think if I did, then I'd be able to go back to who I was before. I want to forget, but it frightens me."

"Why?"

She looked up at him. "Because then I might forget you. And I know better than anyone else what it feels like to be the one left forgotten."

Draco felt something flutter in his stomach and his gaze dropped to her lips. Lips that he'd kissed several times, that he was sure he'd kiss again. Lips he wanted to kiss right now because it was the only way he could think of to show her how her words made him feel.

He resisted.

"Have you been forgotten?" he asked, his voice husky and low.

"Yes. We all did horrible things during the war."

"A friend?"

She shook her head, and Draco lifted his chin.

"Family, then."

"My parents," she whispered. "I had to make some mistakes to keep them safe. Unfortunately, those mistakes aren't reversible. Sometimes I think I do deserve good things, but then I remember what I had to do. I took their choice away and I controlled their bodies. Maybe Paris was karma."

He could hear it in her voice—the poignance of understanding that came with irreversible loss. Something he understood all too well.

A random breeze blew through, cold as ice against their skin. It moved her curls into her eyes and when she reached up to move them out of her way, he caught her wrist in his hand.

"We all made mistakes during the war," he said quietly. "And we've all had to figure out how to deal with them moving forward. These tattoos cover my mistake, but they don't erase it. I had to forgive myself for it."

He saw her gaze flicker to his sleeve, to where the Mark lay hidden.

"You say I never tell you anything," he said. "Well, here's something. The Mark wasn't the only mistake I've made. I've made worse mistakes—ones I can't bear to think of. When I set those rules the other day, it wasn't because I wanted to make things harder for you. I set them because I don't want to keep making the wrong choices. And setting them may very well still be the wrong choice, but it's worlds apart from the ones I've made in the past."

"Okay," she breathed, and he felt her leaning into him. "I'll try harder. I promise."

"And Granger?"

"Yes?" she whispered.

He let go of her wrist and took her chin in his hand. "If I ever hear you say you deserved what happened in Paris again, we're going to have problems. Do you understand me?"

Her eyes widened and she took in a sharp breath, appearing somewhat astonished by his words. But she nodded. She nodded, and that was going to have to be enough for now.

"I'm proud of you," he murmured, his thumb stroking her jaw.

"For what?"

"Eating today. Keeping it down." _And I don't care if I have no right to pride where she's concerned. I'm fucking proud._

She didn't reply, instead choosing to rest the side of her head against his chest and wrap her arms around his waist in a hug. He rubbed her upper arm, the fabric cold underneath his touch.

He tried not to imagine how awful it was going to be to never feel her in his arms again. If the bond was real—which he was 99.9 percent certain it was—then he needed to cherish these moments the same way he should have cherished his moments with his mother.

"We should talk about the other night," Hermione mumbled.

His hand stopped for a moment before resuming its vertical stroking patterns on her bicep. "Are you _okay_?"

"Yes. I just got scared." She didn't lift her head from his chest, so he had a feeling that it was helpful for her to not look him in the eye. "When we were in the dream, I know you said it's dangerous but it felt less . . . Real. And with that, it felt less dirty. Not that I think you're dirty, of course, but—well—"

"I understand," he said. "But you know we don't _have_ to do that stuff. If we're bonded, the best thing we can do when I get back after Christmas is really buckle down and figure out if we are."

"Draco . . ." Her usage of his name pulled his gaze to hers again. She looked worried but resigned. "We're bonded. There's no point in trying to deny it. The dreamwalking alone is answer enough."

He didn't know why it wasn't as Earth-shattering as he'd thought it would be to hear her admit it aloud. It felt more like a settling of liquid into the cracks of a foundation, filling it up and turning it into something they could build upon.

He'd thought he'd have to live with the grey storm for the rest of his life, but the knowledge that there was an opening at the end of the tunnel filled him with relief. At the end of that tunnel, a life with Hermione waited. He didn't know what that life would look like, but he might get the chance to find out.

"We'll need to decide what we're going to do, you know," she said.

"Haven't you already decided?" he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. After all, maybe she wanted a bond reversal because she fancied Theo. Maybe she was only flirtatious and affectionate with Draco because it helped ease the storm for her.

"I thought I had. Now, I'm not so sure. I think that's one reason why I froze up when we . . . Well, you know. The other night."

"So, then we won't do anything like that again until you've made your decision."

"But . . ." She bit her lower lip and averted her eyes. "I _want_ to do those things with you."

"Okay," he said. "Then we'll go slow."

"I don't _want_ to go slow."

"Well, then what do you want, witch?!"

Something shifted in the air, like a spell gathering magic at its center and preparing to explode. Hermione moved away from him and let out a frustrated cry. She placed a hand on the railing as though the cold metal could ground her, and gave him a look of defeat.

"You. I just want you. And I don't know if it's the bond, or if it's me, or if it's you. I just want . . ." She sighed. "You."

Draco's mind went white.

He crossed the space between them in one stride, hooking his hands around the back of her neck and pressing his thumbs beneath her jaw to tilt her face up to meet his. He kissed her without hesitation, worry, or concern, finding that there was nothing and no one that could stop him from showing her his heart in this moment. Even if he didn't quite understand why he felt so strongly for her in such a short time, he needed her to know he did. Needed her to know he wanted her, too.

Hermione whimpered against his lips the moment their tongues connected, her cold fingers sliding up into his hair so she could anchor herself to him. She was pulling so much that he had to pick her up. He gripped her rear end, once again glad for the shortness of the dress. He lifted her up until she was seated atop the railing with a twenty-foot drop behind her.

It was dangerous. He knew it was dangerous.

But Draco liked dangerous.

She threw her arms around his neck, gasping into his mouth without so much as stopping to catch her breath as she played cards with Death atop the railing. If Draco so much as made a slip of his hand, she'd go toppling over, and by the way she was panting, she knew it.

They couldn't get close enough to each other. Draco couldn't get a solid taste of her, so he had to dive in for more, more, more. Until he didn't know who was who. Until he made sure she knew he wanted her. Needed her.

 _Craved_ her.

Because now that they'd discussed what needed to be discussed, it felt like the final veil between them had lifted. Their past was just that—the past—and now they had only each other. The future. A future _with_ one another that was as visible as the emerald green sky in his dreams.

If she wanted it.

The veil had been ripped apart, and now he was kissing _her_. The real her. The one that had been held back by fear. He could taste the trust on her tongue.

Draco stepped as close to the railing as the bars would let him, holding her flush against him so she wouldn't tip back. Her back arched into him, her breasts pressing fully against his chest in a way that he couldn't ignore. There was a storm of lust raging inside of him, driving the freezing December temperatures up to heated heights.

Then, she placed a shaking hand on his chest and began to undo the buttons on his coat. She kept her other arm around his neck, her body rigid as she tried not to lose balance on the railing.

"What're you doing?" he breathed, voice raspy.

"We're on a roof and if you let me go, I'll fall and die. No one's up here. No one even knows we're up here." Her words were slow, drawn-out, seductive. "I think it's safe to say it's as close to a dream as we're gonna get. And what happens in a dream stays there, right?"

She looked at him, holding his gaze with one eyebrow raised as she slipped her hand beneath his shirt and touched his bare skin with fingers as cold as ice.

He hissed through his teeth and slammed his lips against hers once more, feeling her legs spreading wider to accommodate him. He felt the flames of desire licking along his veins like wildfire, devouring his reservations and putting him in a place of wild abandon.

Her fingers toyed with the buckle of his belt.

_Fuck._

Suddenly, there was a loud _bang_ noise.

"Hey! You guys up here?"

Blaise's voice.

Hermione gasped as Draco jolted. His stomach lurched with surprise and he lifted her by the rear. They both laughed in nervous relief as he spun her away from danger and carried her further onto the roof. Her arms around his neck, she dropped another kiss onto his lips and then he set her on her feet.

"We're over here!" Draco called.

Hermione slipped her hand into his as they walked back over to the grate. They could see Blaise there, his hand on the open door. Pansy was behind him, peering over the side of the building.

"How'd you guys get over there on that side?" Blaise asked. "Did you Apparate?"

"We climbed," Draco replied. "How'd you find us?"

"Tracking charms are free, Draco," Pansy said, and then she fell into peals of wild giggles. She staggered, stumbling into Blaise's back. She was clearly sozzled.

"We're about to leave though. The show's over." Blaise rubbed the back of his head. "Were you heading back with us?"

"Yeah, we can do that. We can get warm and then say our good-byes. See you inside?"

Blaise nodded, and then pulled Pansy back down the stairs to the door.

Draco and Hermione began the dangerous process of climbing back around the grate. Draco climbed backwards over the railing, onto the small bit of concrete that jutted out a couple of inches past the bottom. He balanced on his toes with his hands on the metal.

"All right, come here," he said.

"You'd better not let me fall," she grumbled as she swung her leg over the railing beside him. "I swear to Godric if you let me fall and I die, I'm resurrecting myself and throwing you off this roof."

"Did I let you fall when we were over there?"

"Shut up."

Draco smirked to himself and lifted his arm, placing it on the other side of her body. She carefully placed her feet in-between his and he felt her back pressing against his front.

"Okay, ready?" he said, a bit breathless with nerves. "I'm gonna start moving."

Together, they began inching to the left, towards the platform at the top of the stairs. Hermione's breath kept hitching, showing him that she wasn't as brave as her House would presume.

"Don't worry," he murmured, his biceps straining from holding them both up. "I won't let you fall."

"Well, I'm worried," she breathed. "I can't see where to put my foot."

"Just—right there—yeah. And then just slide it; don't lift it. Good."

They reached the other side of the grate, and then Draco reached up to grab onto it. He pulled himself up and over, twisting around to face the railing so he could slide his arm around her waist. As she stepped up and swung her leg over, Draco surprised her by wrapping his arms around her thighs and lifting her bodily into the air. She let out a soft cry and put her arms around his neck.

"You prat," she said. "Quit showing off."

"And for that, I'm carrying you all the way through the venue."

She laughed.

The sound of it was everything to him, like a melody of a memory that would never fade. It was ingrained in his mind for eternity, whether she decided to reverse the bond or not.

Even if this wasn't a dream, he didn't mind pretending like it was.


	27. Chapter 27

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Five**

Draco woke on the 23rd with his nerves on edge.

Today was the day. The interview for the Japanese internship.

He was terrified of how it was going to go, and terrified that he might say the wrong thing or make some sort of mistake. This wasn't something that he'd studied or prepared for—he had absolutely _no_ idea what the interviewer was going to ask.

His entire future rode on this interview.

He'd arrived at Ryo's late at night after seeing Hermione off at the hotel. She'd Apparated directly to The Burrow, and then Draco had gone to the Ministry to pick up the Portkey that Ryo had told him in a past letter would always be waiting for him. It had been rather late at night, but the woman in the Portkey office never seemed to sleep. He was in Wales at the Sunamura estate within minutes.

Technically, it wasn't an estate. Not in the way that the Malfoy estate was.

The Sunamuras lived in a wizarding cottage on 1 acre of land, much like he assumed the Weasley family did. There were a lot of Pureblood families in the wizarding world, but not all of them were as wealthy as the Malfoys, or the Zabinis, or the Parkinsons.

The cottage had two rooms and was the sort of cottage that reminded him of Hagrid's. The décor was comfortable and lived-in, with furs and decorative plants. The fire was a perpetual fire, so the entire abode was warm.

Ryo's wife was a woman named Rose with short, curly brown hair and eyes that sparkled like emeralds. She was someone Draco had grown up around, just like Ryo, and she was a close friend of his mother's.

When Draco had entered the cottage, she lit up like firelight and embraced him in the type of hug he only ever got from her. Now, the following morning, she woke him with a gentle knock to the door of the cozy room they'd put him into.

"Draco," she said in a sing-song, melodic voice. "Have you woken? I've put a pot of tea on and would love to make you breakfast. I believe your interview is in thirty minutes or so."

At that, Draco sprang up, his hair a mess and eyes crusted with sleep. He hadn't slept this soundly in months, but no matter how comfortable and safe he felt, he was _not_ missing the interview.

"I'm up!" he hollered, shoving himself into his clothing.

"I'll go start breakfast, then," Rose called back.

"All right, yeah!"

His mother would never allow the yelling through the door, given that it was uncouth to yell through walls and doors, but Draco was not his mother and this was not the Manor. The Sunamuras were Purebloods, but in an unconventional way. It honestly surprised him that their families were such good friends, but the adults had been friends since their Hogwarts years.

Draco supposed there were a lot of things he didn't know about his parents when they were younger.

He put on a pair of black trousers, a white button-up with long sleeves to hide his tattoos as best he could, and a black vest. Standing in front of the full body antique mirror, he scraped his hair back and inspected himself.

Presentable enough.

"Good morning," Rose said when he entered the kitchen. She turned to look at him, putting a hand on her hip. "Well, don't you look handsome! Are you excited?"

"I suppose," Draco said with a nervous smile, pulling a chair out at the small wooden table. The dining area was rather small and Draco was so tall that he almost felt like it was cramped. He sat down right as Rose floated a plate from the countertop to land in front of him. "I don't know if I should glamour my hands."

Rose bustled over, her robes trailing behind her as she came to stand beside him. She took his hand and inspected it. "Although I'm happiest with freedom of self-expression, I think you should. Just in case."

Draco nodded and pulled his wand out. After the glamour was in place, he stared at the blank canvases of skin. It was startling. It felt like taking a glimpse into the past, into a time before he ever would have imagined himself sitting in the Sunamuras' kitchen awaiting an interview for an internship in a completely different country.

"You've got about twenty-five minutes," Rose said, sitting down across from him with her own plate of food.

"Ah, okay," Draco said. "Where's Ryo?"

"He's gone to the Ministry for something work-related, but he'll be back in time for supper."

"And the interview? Will it be in-person?"

"No," she said. "For Japan, it's already Christmas Eve, and they do celebrate the holiday over there. Mr. Kanaka is doing us a favor by arranging an interview via scrying mirror. I hope that's okay with you."

_Us._

Draco felt a strange emotion overcome him. It was almost like they were family.

He cast the thought aside. The Sunamuras were nothing like the Malfoys. They were genuinely good people. They hadn't made the wrong choices.

They would never want someone like him in their family.

"That's okay with me. I can't say I've ever used a scrying mirror before. My mother has, but I was under the impression it was an antiquated form of contact?" he said between bites.

"It's antiquated, but effective for cross-country visual contact when the witch or wizard can't be there in-person," Rose explained, smiling at him. "Don't worry—it'll get the job done."

Draco wished he knew what questions this Mr. Kanaka would be asking him. At least then he could feel confident enough to know that he'd be getting the job done, too.

They chatted for the remainder of breakfast, the conversation helping Draco to forget about everything else, especially how nervous he was.

Finally, it was time.

"Are you ready?" Rose said, standing up and sending the empty plates to the sink with a wave of her hand. "The scrying mirror is in the spare room across the hallway from yours."

Draco swallowed and nodded.

As ready as he'd ever be.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco straightened his shoulders, clasping his hands in his lap and lifting his chin to try and look as put-together and mature as possible. He wanted to make a good impression and with the stoic expression on his face, Mr. Kanaka seemed like a wizard who cared about first impressions.

"Hey," he said, and then tried not to cringe. "Er—Good morning, Mr. Kanaka. Sir."

"I trust your holiday is going well. I know we're hours ahead of you over here, but I'm sure the holiday season is already underway?"

"Yes," Draco said, his heart pounding and nerves trembling. "It's underway."

There was another awkward silence. Mr. Kanaka studied him for a moment, wearing a curious expression.

"Why do you want to intern with me, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco felt his panic levels rising. Ryo had originally stated in his letter that it was going to be a representative—not the actual wizard he'd be interning with.

He didn't want to tell him that it was his only option. He didn't want Mr. Kanaka to smell his desperation from across the land. But he didn't know what to say. How could he explain why he wanted a job that he only sought because he couldn't get one in Britain? One that he only wanted because he dreamed of disappearing from the public eye?

Still, he felt sweat prickling on the back of his neck.

He felt like such a loser.

Mr. Kanaka cleared his throat and leaned closer to the mirror. "I think it prudent to mention to you that you've already got the job, Mr. Malfoy. There's no need to be so nervous."

_. . . What?_

Draco coughed on air. "I—I do?"

Mr. Kanaka smiled. "Yes. You do."

"How?"

"Ryo is a good friend and trusted confidant," Mr. Kanaka replied. "He told me everything I need to know to know that you'll be a good fit for the internship. What I want to know from you is the reason why you want this."

Draco grimaced and lowered his gaze. "Do you want the truth?"

"Honesty is the best policy, Mr. Malfoy."

With a sigh, Draco said, "I want to disappear. I want this internship because I want to work for a department that will allow me to disappear into a system that will consume me. I originally wanted to intern for the Department of Mysteries here in Britain, but no one would have me. So to be honest, Mr. Kanaka, I would not have chosen Japan as a country that I would ever move to if it weren't for my past and my record."

Mr. Kanaka nodded, looking thoughtful. "And your record . . . It has to do with the war that recently ended, correct?"

"Yes." Draco hung his head, feeling the shame crawling up his spine. "And it was in that war that I chose the wrong side. I honestly . . . Well, I don't know if I'll ever be able to work in Britain again. My future is likely over. So, when Ryo suggested this internship to me, I was happy even though it wasn't anything I ever would have thought to choose for myself."

"It was your only option."

Draco flinched. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Mr. Kanaka smiled again. "What I want you to do instead is tell me why you made that choice. The choice to fight on what you've said is the wrong side."

Draco bit his lower lip, averting his eyes as he tried to think of the best way to answer the question.

"To protect my family, sir." He frowned. "It's hard to explain, but . . . The Dark Lord was not someone who was above tracking through the mud to get what he wanted. He had me, my father, and my mother in a vice. If one of us stepped a toe out of line, the other two would be killed. It didn't matter which of us it was—one was worth two. My father did what he had to do. My mother did what she had to do. I did what I had to do. But there are consequences for every action, no matter the intention behind it."

Mr. Kanaka nodded slowly. "Excellent choice of words. I may not know what the circumstances of your war entailed, but I do know that any man who chooses family above all else is a man I want working for me. Now, why don't you tell me . . ."

Draco could hardly hear him for the joyous way his heart was pounding in his ears. He couldn't believe this was happening. Deep down, in spite of his high hopes, he hadn't thought he'd be making it past this interview. He'd feared that this final chance would be taken from him and that he'd end up with nothing. No hope. No future.

No way of taking care of Hermione if she was truly, _truly_ bonded to him.

But now he had something to hold onto—someone he would do anything for. And when he really thought about it, he wasn't so sure he wouldn't make the same wrong choices for her as he had for his parents.

He was so absolutely bloody _fucked_.

* * *

Draco looked up from his novel when the Floo flared to life.

Ryo stepped out, his robes dusty with soot and a smile the size of Finland on his face. His jet-black hair was worn in a low tail at the base of his head and his salt-and-pepper beard stood out as a defining feature on his face. He spread his hands wide.

"Well?!" he bellowed, his hearty voice filling the cottage.

Rose stood to take his coat, the smile on her face just as wide and full of pride as his.

Draco's heart fluttered as he closed his book and returned their smiles.

"I got the job."

"You got the—?" Ryo pumped a fist into the air. "Fantastic, Draco! I knew you could do it! Oh, I'm so proud of you! Get on over here and give me a hug!"

Draco tried to hide how sheepish he felt as he stood up from the couch and walked into the embrace of someone he'd come to know as family just the same as his parents. Everything Ryo had done for him—a hug was only the foundation of what Draco owed him in return.

Ryo clapped him on the back. "I'm _very_ proud, Draco."

"Though I suppose I owe my success to you," Draco said, squeezing him in return. It felt nice to be embraced, to feel a man's arms around him. His father had hardly ever embraced him. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Ryo held him at arm's length and shook his head. "All I did was pass the information along. Mr. Kanaka wrote me and told me he genuinely liked you." He held up a forefinger as he recalled the words. "He said you walked the darker path for the sake of family, and that shows a level of desire to survive and succeed that is lacking in the youth of today. He told me—" Ryo let out a small, incredulous laugh and gripped Draco's shoulder tighter. He wasn't as tall as Draco, but they were able to make near-direct eye contact. "He told me that you really opened up and told him about some of the things you experienced during the war. You put your trust in him and he values honesty above everything. He told me he could see it in your eyes the first moment he saw you. You're not only fit to be an intern for Mr. Kanaka, but you're fit to be the head of the Malfoy Estate. And I _will_ be letting your father know."

Draco felt a swirl of conflicting emotions. Pride towards himself for telling the truth. Disdain towards his father for keeping tabs on him through Ryo. Discomfort over having Lucius know what was going on in his life when ignoring his letters was the most power Draco'd had over him in his entire life.

And a little something extra that pulled at his heartstrings and tried to fill his eyes with tears.

"Thank you, Ryo," Draco said, and he put his hand on Ryo's opposite shoulder. Beside them, Rose looked on. "For doing this for me. You gave me a future, and it means the world to me."

"Of course, my boy." Ryo's brows twitched together and he pulled Draco into another embrace. "Of course."

"Now," Rose said, "why don't we sit down to dinner?"

They made their way to the table, where Rose had prepared a lovely supper of ham and sides. The entire cottage was decorated from floor to roof with lights and decorations, but it was the floating ones that really stood out to Draco. They were gold and moving, spinning lazily about a room draped in sparkles and light.

They reminded him of Hermione.

As they sat down and started to eat, Draco could hardly focus on Ryo's recounting of his workday. He wondered how Hermione was doing at the Weasley home. He wished she hadn't felt the need to go there for the holiday, but he did understand it. She had no family, and neither did he.

As much as Draco loved the Sunamuras, he wished he could be at the Manor with his mother and father—damn him. So he understood why she'd decided to go there. All those Weasleys she'd so lovingly told him about in the common room a few days before, and Potter. She needed to be around them, he grasped that.

He wished she didn't have to be near the Weaselbee. That oaf had _no_ idea how close he'd come to meeting the end of Draco's wand in the past month. Weasley hadn't the slightest clue what his poor choice had wrought upon Hermione, and the only thing that kept Draco from seeking him out was his ability to detect that Hermione would be livid with him if he attacked her "best friend."

But the clock was ticking on his patience.

Draco glanced with fondness at one of the floating Christmas decorations, which glittered like diamonds. He chuckled under his breath as he chewed his recent bite.

"What's that?" Ryo said as he speared some food on his fork with his free hand. His other hand was clasped in Rose's on the table.

"Oh, nothing," Draco said. "just—my dormmate has decorations like this up all over the common room. I hated them for the longest time. Now they just seem familiar."

"Oh, come off it," Rose said with a laugh. "You know your mother had those House Elves be _decking_ the Manor on the holidays."

"Yes, but there's something different about hers," Draco said, voice a bit faint. Given that Hermione's family wasn't in her life anymore, the decorations were more meaningful to her. They represented a piece of her past that she had to hold onto.

" _Hers_?" Ryo said, his eyebrows shooting up. He exchanged glances with Rose. "A _witch_ in your life, Draco?"

"Of sorts," he said, and then he took a bite of his ham.

"Who is she?" Rose asked. "I had thought your parents were arranging you a betrothal. Is she the witch they—"

"No," Draco said, grimacing. "My parents never got around to arranging that, actually. The— _his_ return put a damper on that."

"Is it someone else?" Ryo asked.

"Yes," Draco said, because the word slipped out before he could stop it. "Yeah, it's—it's someone else."

"Well, tell us about her!" Ryo said in his robust, cheerful tone. "Is she kind, feisty, quiet, compassionate . . . ?"

"She's . . ." Draco slowed his chewing and rested his forearm on the table's edge. His fork trailed through his food in an absentminded manner. What was he supposed to say?

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"No. She's my soulmate."

Ryo and Rose stared at him. The silence was thick and shocked and awkward, but it didn't feel judgmental.

Draco didn't know what happened. In hindsight, he would probably have to say that he was desperate for someone to know. With his friendship with Theo being on such unsteady ground, Draco had been dealing with everything alone for the past month. Blaise and he were close, but he wasn't sure how he and Pansy truly _felt_ about Hermione.

What if they told the wrong person that he and Hermione might be bonded? What if the only reason they were "okay" with Draco and Hermione canoodling was because they thought it could end at any moment? Pansy had poisoned Hermione's tea and while she was contrite, he didn't think she had changed any of the ideals they'd learned in childhood. They were Purebloods.

Neither he nor Hermione needed the stress of societal evisceration if Pureblood society found out _the_ Draco Malfoy was bonded by some medieval ritual to a Muggle-born. They'd hurt her any way they could and he wasn't sure his name held the same weight anymore. He wasn't sure he could protect her from that.

But Ryo and Rose were different. He didn't know how he knew, he just felt it. He felt it and he couldn't hold onto the burden by himself any longer.

So he told them everything.

Well, minus the parts that were sexual in nature. That probably wasn't important.

But he told them about the punch in Third Year, and the depression and illness over the following Summer, and the kiss in the corridor after the Yule Ball. He told them about the dreamwalking and the nightmare, and then he told them about what happened in Divination that led to him walking her memory. He told them about Paris and her eating problems and the fact that he'd walked in on her in the bathroom—and he did regret sharing that, but it was like a waterfall tumbling from his mouth. He couldn't stop it.

". . . And we have no idea who could have bonded us, but we're fairly certain we're bonded. We keep dancing around the idea, but I think deep down we both know it's true," Draco finished, lowering his gaze to the table. "And when we get back after Christmas, we're going to put our efforts into finding out how to reverse it."

Ryo and Rose looked at one another, and Draco could see that they were having a silent conversation. He didn't know what they were thinking. His heart felt lighter, but he knew it had come at a possible cost. He knew the Sunamuras, but did he really _know_ them? They seemed to have taken the information well so far.

But he knew there was one final piece to the puzzle.

Apparently, so did Rose.

"She's not a Pureblood, is she?"

"She's Muggle-born," he said in a low voice, hanging his head.

The Sunamuras each let out heavy sighs, as though they weren't sure what to do with him. But then, just as Draco was starting to regret having confided in them, Ryo surprised him.

He slammed his fork down on the table.

"Draco Malfoy!" Ryo said, his voice sharp and stern. "You raise your head." Draco did, his eyes popping open at the level of vehemence he heard in Ryo's voice. "That girl is your family, whether you like it or not. If you're bonded and it's not reversible, it doesn't matter one iota what her blood status is. That is the witch you will be beside for the rest of your forever. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Flushing with chagrin, Draco said, "That isn't the issue. I swear. I don't mind about her blood status, I—"

"It's not something you have the right to mind or not mind," Ryo snapped, his eyes blazing. "And that's one thing your father and I _never_ agreed on. You are no better than anyone else, therefore you have _no_ right to decide someone else's worth. You can mind it all you want or not, but she's still going to be good enough."

"I know that," Draco whispered, his appetite completely curdled. "I'm not ashamed of her."

"Then who are you ashamed of?" Rose asked, her tone in gentle contrast to her husband's. "Because the look on your face was not one of pride, darling."

Draco closed his eyes. It felt like his mother was speaking to him.

"I'm ashamed of myself," he said, dragging his hands up into his hair and hanging his head between them with his elbows on the tabletop. "I'm ashamed of the fact that I treated her so horribly when we were younger that she wants the bond reversed. And I'm ashamed of the fact that I'm too cowardly to tell her that I don't want to reverse it. It's only been like, one month, but I already know what I want."

Ryo inhaled deeply and then asked, "Do you want to spend an eternity with her?"

"I don't know."

Rose asked, "Do you love her?"

Draco let out a nervous laugh, looking up at them through his lashes without removing his head from his hands. "Aren't those the same question?"

"You can spend eternity with anyone if you're forced into it," Rose said, squeezing Ryo's hand, "but love is different. It's something you choose every day."

Ryo nodded. "Whoever she is, she has to know that before she makes her decision. And I think you'll find that it's exactly the answer she needs to make it."

"She's already made her decision, I can guarantee it." Draco sighed and sat back in his chair, his food forgotten and going cold. He crossed his arms over his chest. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"And I—as a woman—can guarantee you that she hasn't," Rose said. "This is a soulmate bond, Draco. A bond tied to the stars. She knows what that means. She knows what it would mean if she reversed it."

Ryo nodded again and added, "And she knows what she would be giving up."

"What she would be giving up?" Draco let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "A lifetime of misery with a felonious wizard with a record, barely a foot in the door of a future, and who built the foundation of their past on cruelty?"

"No," Ryo said slowly, "a possibility at a future with someone whose pieces fit into the empty spaces of her own. Draco, do you even understand what a star bond is? It's not just taking two random magical cores and binding them together like parchment and wax. It's taking two halves of the same whole and binding them to something that won't ever let them stray away from one another."

Draco's heart skipped a beat, sinking down like a stone in water as he looked across the table into Ryo's eyes. "Star bonds were used for betrothals."

"Star bonds were used for _matchmaking_ ," Rose said. "It's a part of Pureblood history that isn't taught as extensively as it should be. Pureblood families didn't bond just anyone. They sought proper matches that fit together like two halves to the same whole. If they couldn't find the match, they used different forms of betrothal bonds. But star bonds were reserved for the luckiest of the lucky. The bond would not have worked if you and your betrothed were not truly a good match."

"Then why did they stop using them?" Draco asked. "Why did they fade into history the way they did?"

"I'm not sure," Rose said. "I only know what my mother taught me. Your Divination professor will know more, I'm sure of it. In fact, if you and this girl are bonded and you want to have the best chance at making this decision accurately, then you _need_ to speak to your professor."

"So," Ryo said, "do you love her?"

"I want to be bonded to her," Draco replied, shrugging and rubbing his jaw with his hand as he searched the air for his thoughts. "I do see her as my family and I want to keep her in my life. I don't want to be separated from her, but if that's what she wants . . ."

"I didn't ask that," Ryo said, shaking his head. "I asked you if you loved her."

"I don't know. It's only been a month, but we have this . . . This connection between us that feels eternal. So the answer is that I don't know."

"You will," Ryo said. "I promise you that you will."

* * *

Draco sat up at the knock on his door.

He'd stayed up reading and though it wasn't too late, it was already ten. This was much later than the Sunamuras had stayed up the night before. He set his book down right as Rose opened the door and poked her head in.

"Can I speak with you?" she said.

"Yeah, sure," Draco said, sitting up more fully and gesturing to an armchair that sat adjacent to his bed. As Rose took her seat, he grabbed his wand and lit the lantern with an _incendio._ Warm, golden light flooded the room with an ambient glow. "What's the matter?"

"Well," she said, adjusting the skirts of her robes as she seemed to contemplate her next words. "After our conversation at supper, I realized we didn't really discuss her health. From what you said, she's very ill and needs help, correct?"

Draco gulped.

Right. That.

"Yes, she's . . . She's not well," Draco said, voice meek.

"You can't carry that burden all on your own, Draco. You know that, right?" Rose said, her brow furrowing.

Draco swung his legs around until his feet were flat on the floor. He rested his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands together between his knees. "I can try."

Rose sighed. "Oh, Draco. You poor thing. You can try, but you won't succeed. You have to understand that. If you're soulmates, then your fates are intertwined. If she dies, you die. If you die, she dies. This isn't a burden you can carry for her."

"I can carry this one," Draco said, tone insistent. "We've come up with a system. We've got open lines of communication. She knows I care. I _can_ carry this, Rose."

"Like you carried it for your mother?"

Her question hit him so hard in the chest that his eyes filled with tears. He squeezed them shut for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. No one knew. No one knew, except Rose now, and it was overwhelming. He felt like he'd been trying to keep it contained for so long and now he was too weak to keep it from slipping piece-by-piece from inside of him. He didn't want to let it go, yet it felt so relieving just to watch the pieces drift.

"No one knows," he breathed. "And I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"I understand," Rose said. "Ryo doesn't know, and neither does your father. The only reason why I know is because I overheard it at the end of a luncheon when you were in your Fourth Year. I never told her I heard."

"How did you know I was hiding it for her?" Draco asked, his voice rough from trying to keep his emotions in check.

"I didn't," she said, "until now."

They stared at each other for a moment, the flickering of the candlelight causing the shadows to waver. Draco realized then that his own insistence at maintaining some form of control over Hermione's illness was giving his own secrets away. Why else would he care so much about it, if it weren't because of his mother?

And here Rose was, giving him an expectant look, waiting for him to realize that he really couldn't do it alone.

He conceded defeat.

"I need help," he said. "I don't know what I'm doing and I'm terrified because I don't fully understand it. She's the only thing I have that's mine. I don't want to lose her like I lost my mother."

Rose gave him a gentle smile.

"I can help you."

Draco watched as Rose waved her wand and a stack of three books appeared on his mattress beside him, nestled in the soft comforter. He picked them up and looked at each title.

_Understanding Eating Disorders._

_The Effects of Eating Disorders on Teens._

_Disordered: A Study on Family Dynamics in the Wake of Sorrow._

"I bought those from a Muggle bookstore in London," Rose explained from the chair, "after that luncheon. I loved your mother. She was my best friend and I wanted to understand it."

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Draco asked, frowning as he held one of the books in his hands. He wasn't angry, but he was perplexed. If she'd gone to these lengths, why hadn't she done more to help?

Rose lowered her gaze. "We all have things we regret, Draco, and that's why I want you to read these books. Read them cover-to-cover and do your best to understand your witch."

* * *

Draco stayed up all night reading.

He read clear until the next morning, past the point of tiredness. He read in the chair in the living room while Ryo and Rose spent time reminiscing in front of the fire. He read into the afternoon, even when his eyes were drooping. He read until the words blurred because he was starving.

He devoured it all.

Hermione was in danger from herself and reading these books was like ripping open her skull and peering into her mind. It didn't explain some of the things she'd said to him, but the literature explained to him exactly how wrong it could go. How wrong it was already going.

And it gave him answers about his mother.

The symptoms were there for Hermione: her short temper and irritability; how exhausted she'd been on the steps outside the restaurant in London; the overexercise he'd seen her doing in the common room that had probably been going on for months; her overeating and skipped meals in the Great Hall and their dorm; the way she got lost in her thoughts from time-to-time; the fact that she couldn't seem to grasp how sickly she'd made herself look when they were walking his dreams.

The purging.

That was the most dangerous part. She could be any weight at all, and still die. Every time she purged, she disrupted her body in a way that could cause her to die in moments. She could tear her esophagus. Her heart could stop. She could go into what was called 'respiratory arrest.' Her stomach could rupture, spilling its contents into her body and killing her in minutes.

Five or ten—it didn't matter. It would never be enough time.

The anxiety curdled his stomach at the thought.

There was so much information to take in. Statistics across countries. How people with this disorder could weigh absolutely anything and still be on the verge of death. How Black women were one of the most overlooked ethnicities in the global medical field, especially when it came to disorders, which put Hermione directly in the category that needed the most help. The percentage of women who were disordered versus men.

There were other symptoms, too. Symptoms he didn't know if Hermione possessed. Deteriorating joints. Lowered potassium, which according to the books is what could cause her heart to stop if the levels got too low. Nutrient loss that caused her hair to fall out and her skin to dry. Rotting, chipped teeth.

It was overwhelmingly painful, and he knew it was because his mother had endured all of this in complete silence.

And then she died.

"I think I'd like to write a letter," he said suddenly, interrupting Ryo's raucous retelling of a Quidditch game to his wife sometime after lunch.

"Of course, my boy!" Ryo said. "There's parchment in the spare room. Just open the window, and the owl will come. Her name is Berry."

First, Draco went to his bedroom. He went through his coat pocket and pulled out the gift he'd gotten her the day before. He then went into the spare room and rummaged around until he found the parchment, a quill, and the inkpot. He didn't know how to quite articulate his emotions, but he knew he needed to write to her. He knew it was time to give her his promise, and he couldn't wait.

_Granger,_

_I don't quite know how to say this, so I'm just gonna say it._

_I'm fucking terrified of losing you._

_Are you eating? Please try to keep it down._

_Happy Christmas,_

_Draco_

He rolled it up, and then attached the jewelry box to it with a conjured satin ribbon. Once it had been sent off with the owl at the window, he turned to go back into the living room.

Ryo stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

"What's going on?"

"Ah, nothing," Draco said, pushing his fingers through his hair. "I just needed to send a letter."

". . . To your witch?"

Draco gritted his teeth and then let the tension flow out of his body. Ryo was not someone from school. Ryo was like a second father to him, or an uncle. He trusted him.

"Yeah."

Ryo leaned against the doorframe. "Who is she, Draco?"

"Like, to me?" Draco rubbed the back of his neck. "Or her name?"

"Her name."

Draco felt guilty, and he didn't know why. It wasn't like he'd cast the bond himself.

"Hermione Granger."

Ryo blinked. "Excuse me. Whom?"

"Hermione Granger."

The silence was very, very tense.

"This is like Romeo & Juliet," Ryo said after a moment. "Only I'm hoping it doesn't end in death."

"Oh," Draco grumbled, rolling his eyes a bit, "you have _no_ idea."

"Well, now I see why there's so much conflict," Ryo said. "The best advice I can give for this situation is to let her come to you. You've made your decision—she still needs to make hers. Just do your best to be there for her and show her who you are. It'll turn out exactly as the stars have aligned it to."

Draco nodded, and then they went back out into the living room.

He tried to finish reading but ended up dozing off in the chair.

When he woke, he'd missed supper, but there was a letter waiting for him next to his charmed-warm plate on the table. The Sunamuras had already gone to bed. His heart raced as he opened it, rubbing sleep from his eye with the back of one hand as he did so.

_Draco,_

_I need you to be here, I think. Please come to The Burrow for Christmas dinner tomorrow._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_


	28. Chapter 28

**I have a YouTube playlist for this story, but if you aren't following along with the updates on it, then the most important song for this chapter is** _**Blind** _ **by The Natural Synthetic. It's for the scene in the maze. Very important. It really sets the mood of where I think their relationship is right now.**

**Props to you if you catch the Avengers and the Megan Fox/MGK references.**

* * *

** Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Six **

Draco had never been in the vicinity of anything called a burrow before, and he never would again.

It wasn't that he was trying to err on the side of judgmental, but he was erring on the side of judgmental. He was sure the other members of the Weasley family were tolerable and that their mother kept the place as tidy as possible inside, however his hatred for the Weaselbee automatically depreciated the value of the home.

Did the Weasel's mother know what his neglect in Paris had wrought upon Hermione?

As Draco stood in the entrance hall of the mostly-empty Ministry, waiting for Arthur Weasley to come out of the Floo to meet him, he felt his anger levels starting to climb. Just thinking about that piece of rubbish was enough to get him to a boil.

No wonder Hermione wanted him there.

He hoped that's all it was. He knew he could handle it if it was something to do with her anxiety around food, but that didn't mean he wanted to. He just wished she wasn't sick. Not because it was a burden—because he just wanted her to be okay.

But if she needed him, he would be there.

The Sunamuras had understood—even encouraged it—and after a lovely Christmas brunch and lazy morning spent opening a few gifts, Draco left through the Floo for the Ministry. Hermione's reply to Draco's had told him that Arthur Weasley was going to meet him in front of the Ministry Floos so he could Floo him in through the wards. Now, he stood there waiting to do just that.

Christmas at the Burrow was going to be interesting.

He knew Hermione wanted him there and had invited him, but how did the Weasleys feel about it? Draco's parents had held their son in their dungeons. Granted, it was only for a short time, but it had happened nonetheless. Lucius had never been exactly kind to Arthur, either. Draco had heard many-a-rant from his father regarding the Weasley's infamous poverty and Arthur's strange interest in Muggle artifacts.

This was going to be the wildest Christmas for Draco on the record of his life. Not only would the Weaselbee be there, but he assumed the other Weasleys and Potter would be there, too. Potter and he had the most violent past and Draco had a scar bisecting his chest to prove it. But the Weaselbee was different.

Their _future_ was violent.

In spite of that, he wasn't going to ignore Hermione if she asked for him to be there. Not today of all days, and not after learning everything he had from the books Rose had given him. Not when any manner of horrible things could happen if she chose to eat and get rid of it.

What if she died after Christmas dinner?

Draco straightened his back when he saw the Floo flare to life. He'd worn a blazer and trousers out of respect for the adults that would be in the home, so he took the time to straighten his tie and push his hair back.

Maybe he should have brought weed.

Arthur Weasley strolled out of the Floo with a bright smile on his face, the positivity of his attitude taking Draco a bit aback.

"Ah, Draco Malfoy!" Arthur bellowed, the heartiness of his voice rivaling the heartiness of Ryo's. "Happy Christmas to you!"

For some reason, all of Draco's thoughts flew the coop and left him empty and nervous. Sweat began to collect in the lines of his palms. Arthur was by no means imposing, what with Draco being taller than him, but he had a glint in his eye that let Draco know who he was. No matter how bumbling he seemed, he was still a Pureblood wizard and he had received the same education as Lucius and Narcissa.

"Happy Christmas, sir," Draco said, clearing his throat. He was much too aware of his tattoos. They felt like they were floating up off of his skin.

"So, you're coming to Christmas dinner, then," Arthur said, grinning as he put his hands on his hips. He wore a strange outfit and hat that Draco couldn't even begin to explain. "You're very, _very_ welcome in our home, dear boy, but you can't be surprised if I tell you I'm shocked. According to my daughter, you and er—well, my boys have no good words to say about you."

Draco tried not to cringe. "Well, sir . . . I could say the same."

Arthur let out a short laugh. "You have your father's honesty."

"Hopefully nothing else besides that," Draco muttered. He held out his hand. "Thank you for letting me—"

"Nonsense, my boy!" Arthur practically roared, taking Draco's hand in both of his and giving it a vigorous shake up and down. "There's no need for thanks and gratitude. It's Christmas and my Molly's made plenty enough for a village. There a place at the table for you, and a sweater with your initial already knitted."

Draco tilted his head to the side in confusion, his arm aching from the continuous handshake. "A what?"

* * *

Draco wiped his hands on the fabric of his trousers again.

What the fuck was this sweater? It was God-awful. Why would the entire Weasley family wear what felt like stiff eyelashes as a jumper in a cramped living room with a bloody _fire_ in the hearth? And not a single one of them looked perturbed. Gods. Sweat was gathering underneath his neckline.

The entire family was there, but Draco was too overwhelmed to focus on them all and match faces to names to memories. The only ones who really stood out to him were Potter, Weaselbee, the She-Weasel, and the elder brother Bill. Bill, he remembered from Hermione's memory because he'd been the one to stay calm when Draco showed up.

Ginny was sitting astride Potter's lap, a ring on her finger the size of a fucking boulder. If he hadn't bought it with his Order of Merlin galleons, Draco would be surprised. She kept shooting Draco curious glances, her gaze washing over him beside Hermione, who sat between him and the Weaselbee.

As the family conversed in merry, raucous tones across multiple separate groups, Draco tried not to consider weeping. This sweater was a horrific nightmare, but the embrace Molly Weasley had given him when she welcomed him into her home had nearly eclipsed him. He was afraid it would hurt her feelings if he took it off.

It wasn't like he could ask Hermione for assistance. She was drowning in _her_ jumper. It was a hideous maroon color and looked just as itchy as his, but it was so big on her that it looked like it belonged to him. The neckline hung off of one shoulder, exposing the sharpness of her bones in a way that made his heart ache. He highly doubted it was as itchy for her as it was for him.

She was sitting so rigid on the couch that he wondered if she would rather not be here at the Burrow at all. To her right, the Weaselbee leaned away from her with his elbow on the arm of the couch and his temple propped against his fist. He was discussing something with his father, but his body language made it clear that he didn't want to be sitting next to Hermione, either.

Hermione plucked at a thread on her leggings so much that it was clear she was uncomfortable. She wasn't talking to anyone, but no one seemed to notice that the expression on her face was the same one he saw when she was zoning out in the Great Hall.

He wanted to hold her hand.

"So, how has your holiday been going, dear?"

Draco jolted, hearing the kind voice of Molly Weasley to his left. He tore his gaze off of the worn wood floor and turned his head to look at her. He gave her a polite curve of the lips.

"It's been going well, Mrs. Weasley."

The suddenness of his voice drew everyone's gazes in his direction. All conversation ceased and attentions were focused on him. Draco felt the ice coming from them warring with the heat from the fire.

"Were you staying on at the—at your home?" She was smiling, but it seemed a bit strained. He wasn't sure if that was just how she smiled, or if she really would rather not talk to him. "I worry that would be a bit lonely, in that big house all by yourself."

Draco felt his heart wrenching in his chest, like someone had grabbed it and twisted. The silence felt heavy.

Hermione shifted and it felt like she was leaning into him, but he couldn't be sure. He'd never discussed his mother with her. He'd never discussed his parents at all. She'd have no reason to give him secret comfort.

"Yeah, I haven't really been back there," Draco said with the awkward sort of laugh one gives in a situation where one would rather be anywhere else. "It's waiting for me when I do."

"Have you given any thought to what you'll be doing with your parents' things? There's got to be quite a few dark artifacts in there that would be of interest to the Ministry."

There was a collective exchange of glances, and Ginny glared at the oldest Weasley, who had barely done more than watch everyone down the length of his nose all afternoon. Draco remembered him from his First Year—faintly—and he'd been the scribe during all of the Death Eaters' trials. That meant that he'd been present when Narcissa died.

What the fuck was his problem?

Draco sat up straighter on the couch, rubbing at his chin with his hand. He let out another laugh, unsure of what to say. He'd gotten rid of the things of his mother's that he didn't want anyone to know about—he could still remember burning them in that alleyway in London—but why would he get rid of anything else?

Oh.

Percy was being a prat.

"Mum!" Ginny whined from Potter's lap. "Percy can't just _say_ things like that! Tell him off!"

Molly shot Percy a stern glare. "Percy Ignatius Weasley. You mind your manners when speaking to a guest! Get into the kitchen and help me make the pie!"

As Molly started back toward the kitchen, George perked up from his seat in the armchair beside the fireplace.

"Wait, mum! We were going to go out back to play a game." He grinned and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, towards the back door. "Can't you make the pie without him and let me handle the punishment?"

"No, he needs to help me make the pie!" she complained. "You've all helped with something or another, and now it's his turn to help."

"But _mum_!" George said. "You know we always play a game before Christmas dinner!"

" _No_!" Molly was getting red in the face.

"Come now, Molly," Arthur said with a cajoling smile. "I'll help you make the pie. Let them all roughhouse in the yard. You know that's what they like to do."

Molly glared at him. "Arthur."

"Molly."

" _Arthur."_

Arthur sidled up to her, grinning. " _Molly."_

After some back and forth, finally Molly agreed to let Percy go out to the backyard.

Draco felt a small measure of anxiety as everyone got to their feet and started heading for the backyard. He glanced around at them all and then found himself looking at Hermione.

She stood in front of him, almost between his knees, and held her hand out to him. They hadn't done much more than exchange pleasantries and sit next to one another since he'd arrived, but it felt almost as forbidden as snogging in front of the entire Weasley family.

Their eyes met.

She blushed.

He couldn't help the way he smirked when he took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. Her head tipped back so they could maintain eye contact.

She looked more beautiful than usual today, with her curls braided in rows along her hairline, her edges curled against her skin, and the bulk of her hair in fluffy curls that hung down her back. The maroon of her sweater made her face look warm and glowing. There was a different sort of smile on her face—one that seemed to betray a more relaxed nature for the strained one she wore at school. He wasn't sure if he could attribute it to his presence or not.

As they stood there, hands entwined between them, Draco saw Arthur eyeing them out of the corner of his eye. His facial expression was unreadable.

"Ready to play?" Hermione asked.

"I'm always ready to play," he murmured, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. He looked her up and down. "Are you?"

Her cheeks were dark. "Of course. But this isn't Quidditch, Malfoy, and these are games I've been playing since I was twelve."

He arched one eyebrow, perplexed. It almost felt strange hearing her call him by his surname, but it made sense. Him being here had to be a shock enough for the Weasleys. Their friendship was implied. Potter and the Red Weasel would likely see her calling him "Draco" as an insult.

She pulled her hand out of his and turned to follow everyone else outside. It hadn't snowed, so it was colder than usual outside for December, but the moment he stepped outside, Draco realized why everyone was wearing the hideous sweaters that Molly had knitted.

They had warming charms built into them.

Hermione spoke over her shoulder, almost sneaking a look back at him. Her sweater was so big that her legs poked out from beneath it in a way that was almost as comical as when she wore her marshmallow coat.

"You're going to lose," she said.

"Oh, I _am_ , am I?" He laughed and followed after her across the lawn, his hands finding her hips as quick as they could before anyone outside noticed. He whispered into her ear. "Then you'll have your awards when we get back to the castle."

" _Draco,_ if you don't—"

She slapped his hand away and darted forward to stand next to Ginny, who gave Draco a weird look. The Weaselbee and Potter were a ways to the right, talking amongst themselves and eyeing Draco with narrowed gazes. Percy stood to the left with his back as straight as a rod and his nose practically reaching for the sky. Charlie, grizzled and sun-beaten, stood beside Bill's wife Fleur with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Then, Draco came to Hermione's other side, where he folded his arms and watched Bill and George.

The two brothers turned to face the tall stalks of wild grass that surrounded the Burrow, raising their wands to the backyard section. Draco couldn't help how impressed he was by their charmwork. The grass got taller, moving and shifting with a deep rumbling in the Earth. A few moments later, the work was done. The men turned to face the group.

"All right, everyone listen up," George said, his voice edged by excitement. "This is a game of Quidditch like you've never played before. This is _human_ Quidditch."

Draco's brow furrowed. How absurd.

"What genius you've all just _witnessed_ us perform is a spell to turn the grass into a maze." George looked at Draco, still grinning. "Sorry about the poverty, Malfoy. We can't all afford a real hedge maze. Some of us have to make ours out of grass."

Draco ran his tongue along his teeth to hide his laughter. Something about the way George said that let him know he hadn't meant it to be cruel.

George went on, "There's an entrance for each of us ringing the maze. One of you will be the Snitch, and you'll just start running. The rest of us split into two teams. First team enters on the west side of the maze, and the second enters on the right. If you run into the opposite team member, you have to attack them. If you manage to land a jinx or hex, then your team gets a point. If you manage to land one on the Snitch, your team automatically wins. The kicker? The Snitch is the only one who's allowed to use a Disillusionment charm."

Bill stepped forward and waved his wand. He conjured a scoreboard and charmed it. One side said Team A; the other said Team B. "When your spell lands, the maze will know and mark it down. And one last thing."

He waved his wand again, and music began to play from somewhere. Draco didn't care to look behind him and see where. Bill grinned.

"We play until the music stops, and whoever has the most points—if none of us catch the Snitch—wins."

Draco raised his eyebrows. He'd never admit to anyone other than the Wizengamot, but this was actually quite a clever game. He could honestly see he and his own mates playing something like this. He glanced down at Hermione, who gave him a ferocious grin that almost took him aback.

He'd never seen her look so _excited._

"Who's the Snitch?" she asked, tearing her gaze away and then looking up at George.

"You, little girl," George said. "This is the first year you're the smallest."

The triumph on Hermione's face looked harmless to outsiders, but to Draco, he felt like it was rather sinister. Did she feel like it was some sort of competition between herself and Ginny? How Slytherin of her.

But still sad.

"Wait," came the Weaselbee's voice, sounding obnoxious and in disbelief. "Are you sure? There's no way. She's always been loads bigger than Gin."

Draco prayed to the Muggle gods for the patience and understanding necessary to allow the Weaselbee to keep breathing.

"I have _not_!" Hermione cried, and it was the first thing she'd said to him since Draco had arrived. Her hands were in fists at her sides, the arms of the sleeves of her jumper nearly covering them. "That's incredibly _rude_ , Ronald!"

The oaf gave her a disgruntled look. "It's not _rude_ ; it's just honest. You never were a small girl, and Ginny is. Even if you weigh less, she's smaller than you. So she should be the Snitch."

Ginny tsked. "I don't want to be the Snitch. And no, I'm not smaller than her. Hermione, hold out your arm."

The girls pushed up their sleeves and held out their arms beside one another's. Draco almost wanted to look away. It wasn't her scarred arm, but she just looked so _ill_. How did no one else recognize that?

"See?" Ginny said. "She's definitely smaller than me. Even if she _was_ bigger than me last year, she'd probably still have made a better Snitch than me. You're just an idjit, Ron."

Draco gritted his teeth. This wasn't like yesterday—Ginny wasn't his friend. He couldn't take her aside and give away Hermione's secrets like he had with Pansy. And he couldn't just murder the Red Weasel in his own backyard. Instead, he watched Hermione side-long, checking for any flicker of upset on her face.

Her smile was as bright as ever.

"Then I guess I'm the Snitch," she said, putting her hands behind her back. "But I warn you—I'm very good with charms."

Potter barked a laugh and strolled near. "I guess you forgot I'm very good with Snitches."

"I guess you forgot that I am, too," Draco said, arms remaining crossed as he stepped in front of Hermione.

Wait.

Why had he done that?

Everyone stared at him with wary expressions. Everyone save for the Weaselbee, who glowered openly at him without budging from the spot he stood on. Draco felt Hermione's hand curving over the top of his shoulder, and he moved aside. His cheeks were warm.

"I haven't forgotten, Malfoy," Potter said, running his hands through his messy black hair. "I also haven't forgotten that I've beaten you more than once in that regard."

The heat left his cheeks and ran to his heart, where it fueled his penchant for competition. For competition and possession.

"Yeah, but this time, the Snitch is _mine_."

More awkward silence as everyone tried to discern his meaning. He knew he was treading on dangerous waters. There was no way the Weasleys would find it acceptable to know that Hermione had invited Draco after they'd snogged more times that was medically necessary. The only way that made sense to him was if she'd told them he was just her friend.

Friends weren't possessive.

"You always did claim victory prematurely," Potter said after a moment, apparently deciding that Draco was talking about their past Quidditch games. "And it always proved to be a mistake."

Draco sneered and rolled his eyes. None of them knew that whether he won their little backyard game or not, he was still the one that got to touch her in the places that none of them would ever see.

Except the Red Weasel. He was sure to have touched her in some of those places.

Draco narrowed his eyes down at Hermione, feeling a strange desire to grab her by the throat and Apparate them to a private place where he could erase the Red Weasel's marks from any place she'd allowed him to place them.

Salazar, he hoped Potter hadn't been working on his Legilimency.

"Teams are gonna be according to age," Bill said. "Me, Charlie, George, and Percy on Team A. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Draco, and Fleur on Team B. We—"

"Absolutely not," The Weasel interrupted. "If you think I'm going to be on _his_ team, you've gone completely mental. I'm barely keeping my wand in my pocket as it is!"

"Ron, just—" Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. "We all know you hate him. You can be on our team."

The Weaselbee looked like he wanted to argue some more, but he didn't seem able to look either Hermione or Draco in the eyes. He gave a sharp, curt nod.

Bill continued. "So Hermione's the Snitch. Team A, to the west. Team B, to the east. Hermione, just walk straight up to it and the maze will let you in. Let's go!"

Everyone started walking in the directions they were supposed to go, but Draco lingered towards the back. He knew if they got caught, there'd be Hell to pay, but he was Draco sodding Malfoy. He wasn't going to break bread at the table with the guy he hated most if he couldn't break some of the rules of decorum along the way.

When the backyard was clear and the voices were fading, he said Hermione's name.

Almost to the wall of the grass maze, she turned to give him an inquisitive look. He smirked.

"Come here."

"What? But we're supposed to—"

"I know," he growled. "Come here anyway."

She pursed her lips and glanced to the left and right. With a sigh, she pranced over as quick as a pony and came to him. His smirk deepened.

"You can't always have your way, you know," she said, lifting onto the tips of her toes to cup his face. He didn't have to uncross his arms—she kissed him anyway.

"Yes, I can," he said. "With you."

"Oh, no you cannot," she said, giving him a reprimanding once-over.

"Watch me." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. The moment her chest touched his, he hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pressed his lips against hers in a kiss that he hoped sizzled. It certainly set his own nerve endings alight. He pulled back, smirking down at her. "Happy Christmas, sweet girl."

"Prat," she whispered against his lips, and then she darted off into the maze without looking back at him.

Draco walked backwards, casting a couple more surreptitious glances about. He dragged his hands through his hair, marveling at the way his life had changed in such a short amount of time. Sometimes, he felt like the eight months that had passed since the end of the war were equal to the eighteen years he'd been alive. He gazed at the grass wall where Hermione had disappeared into and bit his lip.

Even if they weren't bonded, he was going to do anything he could to keep her.

* * *

Draco ran into Percy first.

He was rounding a corner when he saw the tall, gangly priss standing in an aisle trying to decide which direction he was going to go. By the time he saw the hex coming, Draco's wand tip was already smoking. Draco held in a laugh as a classic Jelly Legs took him out.

"I suppose," Percy said, breathless as he fought to stay upright, "I owe you an apology, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco slipped his wand back into his sleeve. "I suppose I'll accept it."

"Excellent." Percy grimaced. "I'm glad . . . _Whew . . ._ We can come to this accord."

He hadn't actually apologized, but Draco took off past him just the same.

Draco had been wandering through the maze for a good fifteen minutes now, the sounds of spells and laughter echoing in the air as members of each team encountered each other and dueled. Draco had no way of knowing which team was winning, but he didn't much care. He was on the hunt.

If he ran into Potter, he'd be all right, but the Weaselbee was the one he was _really_ interested in running into. If he couldn't outright fight him, then a hex would do. A jinx.

Maybe even a curse.

Yeah, a curse. He'd curse him and explain that in his family, they considered it a jinx. The Weasleys could argue over the semantics of spell classification, and Draco could hide his smirk behind a false apology. It wouldn't be equal to the beating he desperately wanted to give him, but it would have to do.

Draco crept towards the end of an aisle, his feet soft on the grass underfoot as he did so. He could hear footsteps coming from the other side, heading right for him. He smirked.

It was Potter.

He stepped out and took a side stance, brandishing his wand. Potter skidded to a halt, ripping his wand out of his back pocket and aiming it directly at Draco's chest. Panting, he gave Draco a quick smile.

"At least we're not in the loo this time."

Draco burst out laughing at that. He couldn't help it. He lowered his wand.

"How about we agree to not do this again?" he suggested, pushing his hair back. "We both know I'd eviscerate you this time."

Potter smirked and lowered his wand. "It'd only be fair."

"Naturally."

They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Potter took a step closer.

"We've both been through too much to play games, Malfoy. I don't want to beat around the bush and speak in riddles."

"All right." Draco slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Ask me your question."

Potter took a deep breath.

"Are you and Hermione going together?"

No games. No word-mincing. No beating around bushes.

"No," Draco replied, "but we have something."

"Does anyone know?"

"Nah." Draco shrugged. "I don't know if she wants anyone to. Especially not—"

"Don't worry about Ron. I won't tell anyone. The last thing I want to do is stress Hermione out."

Draco's eyes narrowed a fraction. Did he know about her disorder?

"She doesn't handle stress well," he said, choosing his words with careful hands.

"I was surprised when she told me she was going to ask the family if you could come for dinner, but I don't think I was angry. Ginny wasn't the least bit surprised, either. So I don't think you need to worry about either of us."

"And everyone else?"

"Err—well . . ." Potter looked up at the cloudy sky, also choosing his words. "Charlie doesn't give a damn about anything other than dragons. Fleur's got too big of a heart, so she was fine with it. Bill was concerned, but he's not the confrontational sort. Percy flips between wanting you arrested on principle and wanting to get in good with you just in case you become something of consequence later in life."

Draco was beyond laughter at that point. He almost gaped, speechless.

"George thought it was funny—he laughs at everything, you know. Molly loves everyone and she feels poorly for you. Arthur is quite literally a teddy bear. And Ron was . . . Ron."

Draco shook his head. "Of course."

"Obviously."

"And Hermione?"

"Well, she invited you, didn't she? She—"

"I still want to know what she _said_. Was she—"

"Why would you need to know what she said if she invited you, Malfoy? Isn't that—"

"I just want to know."

Potter's expression was deadpan. "You just want to know."

"Yes, I—"

"Because you want to know if she fancies you."

Draco bristled like a porcupine. "Just answer the bloody question, Potter."

Potter's eyes twinkled with mirth that Draco could tell he was trying desperately to hold back. "She told us it was important that we extend the olive branch to you, that you've changed, and that you might like to see the Burrow."

"Wow."

"So do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Like the Burrow."

Draco looked up as he thought. "I've seen it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's been seen."

"But what does that _mean_? Have you seen it and _like_ it, or—"

"It means I've seen it. If I say something, I mean what I say, Potter. I've seen the—"

"But you can't just—"

"I most certainly _can_ just." He gave Potter a once over. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

Potter nodded, averting his eyes to look at the nearest wall of grass stalks as though it were telling him how to respond.

Draco wasn't sure what to think about the turn of conversation, but he was certain that it was monumental. And when he really stopped to think about it, he couldn't say he truly despised Potter. He didn't like him—had felt rejected by him, really—but he didn't _hate_ him.

Besides, they had a lot more in common now.

"I don't like you, and I never have," Potter said, looking up at him. "But for her, I suppose I could learn. We have eternity."

_You have abso-fucking-lutely no idea._

Draco nodded. "Until eternity, then."

"Until. Go on. I'll give you a head start."

They shared a smirk, and then they walked past one another.

Draco wasn't sure what to make of that conversation. It wasn't all that different from the sorts of bickering he did with Pansy and Blaise, but it definitely wasn't the conversation of a friend. He didn't know whether or not Potter and he could ever be _friends_ , but if he and Ginny were accepting of him, then that was a good sign, wasn't it?

He chuckled to himself as he wandered the aisles, turning left and right.

A double date with Potter and the She-Weasel.

His laughter was getting out of control when he stumbled into a row that went in two different directions. Bill was there, blocking the intersection at a stand-still with his giggling wife. The way they were looking at one another down the lengths of their wands made Draco a tiny bit uncomfortable. He started to back away, not wanting to interrupt them.

He doubled back the way he came and went a different direction. He stuck close to the walls, glad for how tall the Weasley men were. If the stalks were any shorter, he'd be seen clearly because he was taller than the Weaselbee.

Draco rounded a corner to the left and stopped.

Hermione.

Her lips spread into a slow grin. "Should I run?"

"Perhaps," he said, sauntering closer with his wand held loftily in his fingers. He gave her a smile he hoped seemed catlike, and then he began to pace around her. "All I have to do is hex you, and then you're mine, right?"

"If you're fast enough," she said, turning to look at him as he walked behind her back. She kept turning her head to track his predatory stroll. "But I warned you."

"You said _fairly_ good at charms."

"Fairly is good enough."

"Hm."

They scrutinized each other. Bill had looked at his wife as though she were made of diamond and dipped in molten gold. Draco wondered if they looked at each other the same way Bill and Fleur had. He hoped Hermione felt like he was.

Around them, the music still played. It didn't seem to have any specific genre overall, but the current song wafting around them sounded like a soft clubbing song. He'd heard many like it in Muggle London over the Summer. The game was still afoot.

Hermione's smile turned mischievous.

"Dance with me, and I won't duel you."

" _Dance_ with you?" His head pulled back on his shoulders, but he was still smirking. "What makes you think I won't just take advantage of you and hex you anyway?"

"Because you would never take advantage of me," she said, and the way she said it showed him it had a much different meaning. She held her hands out to him as he came around to her front. "So dance with me."

He put his wand in his back pocket and raised one eyebrow. "What if someone walks by?"

"I'll cast a Disillusionment spell. I'm—"

"Allowed, yes."

"Allowed."

After a moment, when Draco still hadn't taken her hands, she began to dance anyway. There was a big smile on her face as she made slow movements with her hips, twisting her hands up into the air above her head. He let out a laugh, and it caused her to throw her head back and laugh, too. She spun, much like she had at the concert, and continued to laugh. It was like they were in a dream.

Another reminder why he felt the way he did for her. Things had changed, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"You're ridiculous, you know that?" he murmured.

She crooked a finger at him.

"Come here anyway."

Draco came towards her, reaching for her. She twirled around and put her back against his frontside, still swaying her hips and shaking her head to the tune of the music. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close, dropping his head into the crook of her neck and shoulder. She smelled of flowers today.

She fit against him so well.

They danced like that to the music, Hermione's hands playing in the hair at the back of his head as they swayed. It was nice to close his eyes and imagine they were in a club in London, enjoying the vibes and the lights. Like when they'd gone to the show, but without Pansy and Blaise. Just the two of them.

He wished they were alone right now.

She twisted in his arms when the song changed, her fingers interlocking behind his neck. Her head fell back and she gave him an almost delirious smile. They never stopped moving, and neither did his hands. One stroked back and forth across her lower back and up to her waist; the other smoothed along her arm from shoulder to elbow and back. He couldn't tear his eyes off of hers.

"I'm really grateful you came," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The more I get to know you, the less time I feel like I can spend apart from you. Whether we choose to stay bonded or not, I couldn't imagine spending Christmas without someone who might be part of the rest of my life."

He gazed at her lips. Her words were squeezing at his heart, tugging the strings and playing a melody that he would dance to forever if she'd let him. The maze fell away. The maze, the Weasleys, the burrow, everything. It fell away into nothingness.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispered, his head dropping down.

She breathed a laugh, her eyelids fluttering shut. "Happy Christmas, Draco."

"Mm."

Their lips met, and even the Winter fell away, too.

Kissing Hermione Granger had always and could always be like dancing in the center of a crowded street in Hogsmeade. Nothing inherently wrong with it, but forbidden in the way it felt to have her body molded to all the crevices of his own. Forbidden, the way she seemed to reach into him with her tongue tasting his own and her heart pulling him down to meet her. Kissing her was as dangerous as straddling the railing of a hundred-feet high bridge, looking down at the water as it rippled and moved in different directions. Listening to the way it called to him.

Her kiss called him to the depths of the sea, where he would gladly forget how to swim.

And Draco had kissed plenty of witches before. He'd kissed Muggle girls, too. He'd kissed them all in several places, but no place was as sweet as Hermione's mouth. Nothing was as rewarding as feeling her fingers in his hair, trailing across his scalp. Nothing as arousing as hearing the way she made a little sound whenever his tongue met hers. Nothing could compare to the sounds she made.

His spirit twisted and burned for her.

Draco's hands drifted along her sides and up to hold her face. He pulled back, looking into her eyes with an intense, almost troubled expression on his face. Her smile faltered and he saw the question lingering there in her eyes.

Did they both feel the same way?

"Draco," she whispered, staring at him with something akin to awe or curiosity, "do you know how beautiful you are?"

"No," he whispered back, a strange fear flashing across his mind as her hands slid to his chest. "How beautiful am I?"

"Achingly."

A second passed—the span of the beat of his heart—and then they were snogging again. Wildly. With vehemence. They were stumbling towards the wall of grass stalks nearest them, heedless of the risk of kissing like this in the open. Not caring if anyone walked up to them, not caring if they were being loud, and not caring if they were in the backyard of the Burrow.

Their hands were everywhere.

Touching each other, touching their faces and necks and chests and sides and—anywhere that they could get their fingers dug into. Anywhere that was visible. Anywhere that wasn't. They pulled and clawed and fondled and pressed, snogging as though they were in the common room and not outside in the cold wearing ugly as fuck sweaters.

Draco forgot everything about himself, tilting his head to the side and commandeering her body in a way that she would be unable to ignore. She was forced to focus on his lips just to keep up, just to be able to get oxygen.

Circe, when they got back to the castle, he was going to pin her to the wall. He was getting on his knees in front of the couch for her. He was going to kiss her on the countertop with her thighs bracketing his sides. He was going to do everything he could to make her see the binary stars they were bonded to dancing right in front of her eyes.

"Didn't take you for a dancer, Malfoy."

 _Oh, fuck_!

They jumped away from one another, whirling around to see Ginny standing in the center of the aisle.

"How long have you been there?" Hermione asked, catching her breath as she fought to smooth her curls back into place.

"Thirty minutes. You see, I've mastered the art of making myself invisible if I stand very, very still."

Draco and Hermione exchanged confused glances, but when Ginny began to laugh, relief flooded their eyes.

"I'm taking the piss out of you two," she said, skipping over to stand next to Hermione. She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward, peering up at Draco with a mischievous expression. "I suspected you two were canoodling."

" _Canoodling_?" Hermione practically screeched.

"Granger, relax," he said. "There's no reason to pretend I wasn't just fucking your mouth with my tongue."

" _Draco!"_

Ginny was laughing as hard as he was. Draco felt like he knew her, given that he'd "met" her in Hermione's memory. He found it easy to laugh with her.

"It's all right with me if you two are . . . _You know_ ," Ginny said, reaching to squeeze Hermione's hand. "I just wish you'd write me once in a while so I could know what the bloody Hell is going on in your life. I mean, it _is_ Malfoy."

"I _am_ Malfoy," Draco teased, leaning down.

"Shut up," Hermione said, glaring at him as she grabbed his chin in her hand and kissed him square on the mouth. Right in front of Ginny. "And Gin, _please_ don't tell anyone here. I don't want everything to fall apart before pie."

Ginny laughed again. "No, we wouldn't want _achingly beautiful boy_ to miss out on that. So, I walked up when you guys were still dancing. I wanna dance, too."

Hermione took her by the hands and dragged her back out to the center of the aisle, the two of them laughing as they began to dance to the rock song that had begun to play. Draco watched them with a faint smile on his face.

It hurt thinking about the fact that this was the first time he'd seen Hermione this happy outside of the dream world.

In the next moment, more people joined them. It was like they'd all been called here, pulled like a magnet to the three of them. First came Potter, then Bill following Fleur. Percy slunk in behind a disgruntled looking Weaselbee. By the time Charlie came jogging around the corner, the girls had convinced everyone else to start dancing. After Draco sent a pointed, challenging look in Potter's direction, the two of them joined in.

The music was still playing, so the game was still on. It had to be coincidental. Everyone was talking, asking what they were doing just standing there if the Snitch was caught, but all Draco could do was watch the way the light reached Hermione's eyes while she danced with Ginny.

 _She called me beautiful,_ he thought. _Achingly beautiful._

He hoped she decided to pick him.

Then, George came around the corner and stood beside the very irritated-looking Weaselbee—the only person not dancing.

"What is this, a human Quidditch dance party?" George cried, laughing.

Ginny and Hermione looked at one another, and then fell into a fit of giggles.

"I guess so," Ginny said, and she threw her hands up into the air as the music swelled. "Dance with us!"

He did.

They danced for more than one or two songs, everyone jumping and spinning and moving in tune to the melodies that surrounded them. Draco found that it was easier to do it if he just stopped thinking about it. Much like he had at the concert venue, he lost himself to the music and the fact that it was making Hermione happy.

And he was happy, too.

"Happy Christmas, everyone!" Ginny cried in a joyous voice, throwing her arms around Potter's neck. He picked her up and spun her.

It wasn't about the past or the future. It was about the present. They'd all survived, and they could rejoice in that. No matter what happened at school or during the war—no matter what they'd done at the Battle of Hogwarts—they could all dance together.

It was indeed a happy Christmas.


	29. Chapter 29

**Trigger warning: uhhh some toxic sexual content. I don't know how to explain it. it's not bdsm because this isn't a bdsm story, but its pretty damn raunchy.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Draco felt fuller than he'd ever been in his entire life.

He'd eaten all sorts of food from homemade to gourmet, but there wasn't a single morsel of food that he'd tasted that was better than Molly Weasley's food.

A laugh escaped him at something George was saying. He was relaying a tale of an incident at the Wizarding Wheezes, of a boy who'd tried to make off with an entire box of candies. Apparently, he'd attempted to escape on an old Nimbus, which had shorted out and died in midair right outside the shop, enabling George to walk right up to him and drag him back inside.

Draco had eaten his fill and was now leaning back in his chair, his arm stretched across the back of Hermione's chair in a nonchalant manner. Absentmindedly, his fingers played in the back of her curls. No one seemed to have noticed.

Hermione's plate was full and untouched.

For the past ten minutes, Draco had been trying everything he could to get her to eat something. He'd tried nudging her and taking pointed bites of his own food. He'd tried squeezing her knee affectionately under the table to let her know he was there. He'd even tried rudely reaching past her for the potatoes, whispering _please try to eat_ in her ear when his mouth lingered near the side of her head.

All she'd done was give him the smile people reserved for moments of distraction.

He couldn't figure out what had happened. She was so happy outside and after the game—after they'd crowned Team B the winners—she'd been chatting quite amiably with everyone about how excited she was for Molly's cherry-glazed ham. Then, Draco had asked where the loo was.

Had something happened while he was absent?

There was a rise in mingling conversations, enough so that Draco realized he had a good opening. He turned his head to look down at Hermione, who looked up at him with a beseeching expression. He raised his eyebrows; she raised hers, too. He shot a pointed glance in the direction of her plate. She looked crestfallen for a second, but Draco wasn't having any of it. He held her gaze again, took a deliberate bite of his food, and then lowered his gaze to her plate once more.

 _Come on,_ he thought, wishing she could hear him. _This is why you invited me here, innit? Just_ try _, Granger._

She closed her eyes for a moment and then picked up her fork, leaving one hand in her lap. Her leg began to bounce under the table, as he'd expected, but he was ready. He leaned back in his seat and snuck his hand to hold the one of hers that was hidden, squeezing her fingers in what he hoped was a supportive gesture. She squeezed back.

Draco exhaled in relief.

An entire conversation in complete silence, and still he'd managed to get her to try. That was something.

Everyone chatted for a while, and Hermione ate. She managed to eat ten bites, by Draco's count, before her leg finally stopped shaking. Her pace increased, and soon the plate was almost empty. There was even a small smile on her face.

"I sure wish Fred could be here to enjoy your pie, mum," George said. There was a sad smile on his face.

"Yes," Molly said. "He always did love the cinnamon and apples."

Draco shifted in his seat, feeling somewhat awkward as he watched the members of the Weasley family exchanging mournful glances. He knew what it felt like to lose someone—he just didn't know what it was like to share his mourning with anyone else. His father was in prison, and the only connection Draco wanted to have with him was the chest of unread letters on his dresser.

It wasn't Draco's fault that Fred had been killed, but it may as well have been. He fought on the side that caused it. He felt uncomfortable because in some ways, his mere presence at their home was sacrilegious.

Hermione set her fork down.

_Oh, fucking Hell._

"Hermione," Arthur said as he finished the last of his meal, "have you heard from your parents?"

"Oh . . . No, I haven't," she said, lowering her gaze to the table for a moment. "I suspect they're probably having a great Christmas, though. Or they might already have. I'm not sure of the time difference exactly."

"Well, perhaps there's something you can do later," Molly said. "After you graduate, you could take a trip there and speak to a Mind Healer. Maybe there's something that they can do."

"I already saw a Mind Healer," Hermione said, the sadness in her voice opening a cavern in Draco's chest. "When I explained which spell I used and what I'd done, he deemed it irreversible. Obliviation isn't meant to eradicate memories, but since I was inexperienced, I put confusing intentions behind it. They—my parents will never remember who I am."

The silence afterward settled heavy and thick like snowfall upon the table.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Bill said. "That's awful."

"Maybe they vill dream of you," Fleur added. She was sitting on Hermione's other side, so she placed her hand over hers on the tabletop. "I'm sure their hearts von't ever be able to forget you."

"Thank you, Fleur," Hermione said, turning her hand over so she could squeeze Fleur's fingers.

Draco frowned. He'd known Hermione was sad, but he could feel it now. _Really_ feel it, like a heavy weight in his body that wanted to drag him down. She'd been through such darkness, all within a matter of months, and to top it off, she'd never see her parents again.

The way her shoulders slumped. The fullness of her plate. The forlorn slope of her eyebrows.

He wanted to hold her.

"You'd think with how much you pride yourself on being the best," the Weaselbee said, laughing around his goblet of mead, "you'd have cast a spell that was reversible."

Draco's head snapped in the Weaselbee's direction. He'd hated him before and had imagined himself ripping his head off plenty of times, but this anger was different. Darker. More violent. He felt his fingers slipping out of Hermione's curls as he sat up in his seat. He rested his elbows on the table and cracked his knuckles, exchanging glances with Potter, who grimaced.

Before anyone else could say anything, Hermione said, "And how would you know, Ronald? You can't even cast a spell that works."

The Weasel's laughter choked off into a cough. He slammed his cup down on the table. Molly gasped, looking angry, but before she could reprimand him for it, he was snapping at Hermione.

"Well, your weight loss spell certainly worked because you look like a disgusting bag of bones!"

Just like she had with Pansy that one day in the Great Hall, Hermione lost it.

She lunged forward, like she were going to crawl over the table to slit his throat. She looked as enraged as Draco felt. He had to grab her by the hips and drag her almost onto his lap to keep her from leaping to commit murder.

Everyone was yelling at the Weaselbee, chastising him for his cruel words. The Weasel was responding by throwing his hands about, defending himself with lame, half-drunk excuses. George rolled his eyes and took the mead glass, setting it as far away from his younger brother as he could.

"She just tried to attack me!" the Weaselbee was shouting. "You can't seriously be mad at me when _she's_ the mental one!"

"Let go of me, Draco!" Hermione screeched, clawing at his forearm. "I'm gonna _kill_ him! I'm going to absolutely _kill_ him!"

"Ron, _please_ shut _up_!" Ginny cried. "You're going to get yourself into—"

"Yeah, and I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you!" the Weaselbee yelled back at Hermione, cutting his sister off. "You've been an absolute nightmare since this Summer! All because I thought your dress looked slaggy, _which it did_!"

_Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking fuck._

Hermione went rigid on Draco's lap. She sat up straight and leaned forward, one hand on Draco's wrist and the other pointing a livid finger in her ex-wizard's direction. Draco's body thrummed with energy, poised to spring if he needed to.

He could very easily set Hermione back in her seat, draw his wand, and curse the Weaselbee before anyone stopped him.

"You _left_ me in a city I'd never been to before without my wand," she hissed.

"You know how to use directional spells without magic!" the Weaselbee screamed.

Potter, Percy, and Ginny all spoke at the same time, a chaotic jumble of words.

"Ron, you can't use wandless magic without a wand."

"It's not possible to do directional spells wandlessly without having your wand on your person, or at least in the vicinity, Ron."

" _You're such a bloody idjit, Ron!_ She needed her _wand_ to be able to do that!"

The Weaselbee's jaw dropped as he shot them all disbelieving, offended glances. "I'm only saying that she's nineteen! She's a full-grown woman and the most formidable witch in the bloody country! She was only a short walk away from the club!"

"You still shouldn't have left her there, son," Arthur said, frowning. "Why weren't we told of this? Hermione, he left you in Paris?"

Hermione started to reply, but the Weaselbee was yelling again.

"This is ridiculous! Absolutely bloody mental! All she has to do is pout, and you all fawn over her like she's a goddess! Hasn't anyone ever given any thought to _me_ and the way _I_ feel?! Has anyone thought in the past two minutes to ask _why_ I left her there? We were having a row, and she was being an absolute _bitch_ , just like she's been all year!"

Hermione was trembling, still astride Draco's thigh. "You _cheated_ on me this year. With _multiple_ people. You cheated on me this Summer, too. Were you going to mention that? Or just keep disparaging me to my fam—" She stopped herself. "To everyone here?!"

The Weaselbee's vision went unfocused for a moment, and then in a slurred voice, he said, "I wouldn't have had to look elsewhere if you would have acted like a _normal_ girlfriend instead of making me wait until some arbitrary date, only to suddenly switch and be repulsed by me just because I left you at the pub!"

Except that wasn't what the issue was.

The issue was that him leaving her without her wand had caused her to get fucking raped.

Draco flinched as a violent, acidic rage overcame him. He tightened his arm around Hermione's waist and leaned past her.

"If you don't shut your _fucking_ mouth, you cheeky piece of rubbish, I'm going to rip your tongue out and feed it you!" he snarled. "You don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about, so shut your hole or pour some more liquor down it until you do!"

There should have been silence after that. There should have, because he was Draco Malfoy and he'd just threatened Ron Weasley at his family's Christmas dinner table. But there wasn't.

Hermione filled it.

"You hurt me, Ronald!" She was on her feet, absolutely _screaming_ at the top of her lungs. "You made me feel _worthless_! The second you realized I wasn't like Lavender—that I wasn't going to just throw myself at you like you were the moon to my stars—" She fluttered her fingers. "—you started treating me like I was a burden. You've insulted me, called me names, shamed me, and haven't given a _damn_ about me since the moment we first kissed."

The Weaselbee hopped to his feet, stumbling against George's seat, who looked exasperated.

"That's not true, and you know it! You know I care about you! You've been my best friend for a decade, Hermione! Don't act like that counts for nothing."

"It counts for something," she said, her voice trembling, "but it doesn't erase anything that's happened."

"For Godric's sake! It's not as if I hit you!"

Hermione didn't seem to think about her actions before she carried them out.

She grabbed the nearest goblet—Draco's—and lifted it. With an outward fling of her arm, she tossed the contents of the cup in his direction. In seconds, the Weaselbee was soaked, face dripping with the mead that Draco hadn't seen fit to drink. The shock of it had caused the oaf to plop back down in his seat, spluttering and scrubbing at his wet eyes.

Because it didn't matter if he hadn't hit her.

There were plenty of ways to hurt someone without ever laying a finger on them.

"I hate you, Ron," Hermione whispered, her chin quivering. She gave Molly a heartbroken expression. "I'm so sorry, Molly."

Hermione turned and fled for the stairs.

The room erupted.

"Well, now you've gone and done it, Ronald!" Molly hissed, looking as angry as a violent thunderstorm. "I ought to tie your ears behind your head. You bumbling fool. You _absolute bumbling fool!_ I did not raise you to be this horrid! _"_

"Ron, did you say all those things to that girl?" Arthur looked disappointed and stunned. "How could you treat her like that?"

"You're such a loser," Ginny said. "You _cheated_ on Hermione Granger. What an idjit."

"Take it from me," Charlie said in his gruff voice. "Ginny's right."

"Ron, I don't know what the bloody Hell is wrong with you." George slapped the back of the Weaselbee's head so hard that he pitched forward and had to catch himself on the table with his elbows.

"I can't figure out what the big deal is! It was a crowded pub! We were _right_ down the street from the club you guys wandered off to! Why is she so _angry_?" the Weasel yelled.

Potter was the one to speak this time. "Ron, this is ridiculous. I'm your best mate, but really? How could you _cheat_ on her?"

"I don't know!" the Weasel spluttered, throwing his hands up. "Witches have been throwing themselves at me ever since the articles in the _Prophet_ that came out after the war!"

"So, you get an Order of Merlin and completely lose all respect for women?" Arthur slammed his fork down, glowering at his son. "I'm ashamed of you. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Well, it's not as if she's acting like a _normal_ person! I understood her asking me to wait, but to go from letting me kiss her to not letting me touch her at _all_ just because I left her at a pub after a row? Honestly, she should just get over it. It's not as if we were a good match, anyway."

Did the Weaselbee not know?

Did he not know how badly Draco wanted him dead?

There was a loud sob from the stairwell, and everyone turned to see Hermione standing at the foot of the stairs. She'd been on her way back down, but now, she was motionless with her arms crossed over her chest and an expression of despair on her face that tore Draco in two.

"Us being a match wasn't the problem, Ron. Not everything is so easy as just forgetting. I know it is for _you_ , but that's not how it is for me."

"You're acting like a complete _girl_ about it," he shot back. "You're making me out to be some—some abusive monster, when all I did was cheat on you! So, yeah—I think you should get over it. Our relationship is done because you broke up with me. Why are you still sniveling about it?"

"Maybe it's because you're not the part I can't get over, Ron!" she yelled, tears streaming down her face. "Do you ever stop to think about anything deeply at _all_?"

With a cry of frustration, she bounded up the stairs and did not come back down.

The family's yelling at the Weaselbee resumed.

Inside, Draco felt his heart racing as it struggled to keep his blood from simmering to a boil. He scrubbed his face with his hands, bouncing his leg and fighting the urge to bleed the Weasel like a stuck pig. He was past the point of anger. At this point, he wanted to laugh in incredulity at how badly he wanted to fight the Weaselbee.

He knew that Hermione hadn't told anyone other than himself about what happened in Paris. He understood that. But it wasn't exactly _about_ that. It was the way the Weaselbee had said the horrible things he'd said, delivering them as though she were the last person he ever wanted to commit to memory. As though she were snow that had been tracked inside a clean home.

"I'll go talk to her," the Weaselbee grumbled, starting to stand.

" _You_ sit down," Draco warned, his hands flat on the table as he pushed himself to his feet. He looked at Molly and then Arthur. "I apologize for my outburst. It was disrespectful to you and if you want me to, I'll leave. But I'm going to go take care of her now."

* * *

Draco jogged up the stairs, ignoring whatever happened behind him as he did.

The sound got fainter and fainter, until he was on the second floor and their voices were muffled. Right as he came to the top of the landing, he saw her. She was standing in front of one open door, pacing and chewing on her thumbnail. Her cheeks were wet, but she wasn't crying anymore.

Suddenly, she turned and started to walk into the room she stood beside.

Oh.

_Oh._

It was the loo.

Draco dashed forward, sprinting to catch up to her. His hand slammed against the upper part of the door, curving around its edge to stop it from closing. She stared up at him, her eyes red and glassy and her chest heaving.

"Draco, don't try to stop me," she bit out through clenched teeth. "Don't even try to stop me."

"Just come here," he said in a low tone, his voice pleading with her. The loo was tiny and he was so tall—it was cramped. All she had to do was turn and drop to her knees. He didn't want her to.

She stared into his eyes and as each second crawled by, he saw her getting more and more upset. Finally, her face crumbled and she started to cry again.

"I'm gonna do it."

"No, you're not," he said, sighing. He tried to wipe her tears with his free hand, not wanting to let go of the door lest she try to shove him out. He could always use his wand to get it open, but Hermione was fairly good at charms. That meant she was better than he was.

If she wanted to keep him out of the loo, then she would.

"I'm going to do it."

"No," he said, "you are not."

The pace of her breathing picked up.

"Hermione, you're not gonna do it," he said, raising his voice as he leaned down and cupped her cheek. "Do you hear me? You're not. Not today."

She tried to bat his hands away, to pull her face back so she could shake her head. "You don't understand. You just don't get it."

"I do understand, and I _do_ get it," he insisted, "but you're still not doing it."

"You don't _understand!"_ she cried, her eyes wild. "You don't know anything about it."

"Hermione," he said through his teeth. "Please, _please_ don't purge."

She blinked, frowning up at him. "Where did you . . . ? Nevermind, just—I know about the rules, okay? I know we're not at the castle. But I just ate all of that food and Ron said that—that _stuff_ to me, and I can't deal with it." She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a helpless, defeated look. "I can't cope, so I need to get rid of it _now."_

Draco didn't know why, but his legs were shaking. Whether it was anxiety or fear, it coiled tight in his chest and made him feel like he were trying to stay afloat in choppy waters.

"Hermione, _please_." He grabbed her hand. "Please. I'm begging you. I will get down on my fucking knees for you if it will make you stop."

She let out a sound of irritation and stomped her foot. " _No_. Draco, every second is a second wasted, and I—"

"I know, all right?" he whispered. "I know. But you have to figure out how to cope with it for a little while. Look, we can leave together if you want. We can just—just go anywhere. To a hotel suite, or—or back to Hogwarts. _Anywhere_."

"I don't want to go anywhere. I want to get rid of it."

He squeezed her fingers. "I _know_ you want to, but I'm not gonna let you."

"Draco, you—"

"What are you guys doing?"

Draco scowled and looked over his shoulder. The Weaselbee stood there, his eyes narrowed in suspicion and his cheeks ruddy from drinking. He swayed slightly on his feet.

"We're—"

Draco cut her off, having had enough. "We're busy. Can you leave?"

"It's _my_ house," the redhead snarled. "Who invited you, anyway?!"

" _I_ did," Hermione snapped. "Now, go away, Ron. This is a private conversation."

"You're in the _loo_ together. At _my_ house."

"I don't care!" she shrieked, starting toward him. Draco stuck his arm out and grabbed her opposite arm to stop her. "Just leave us alone!"

"What, you thought you'd get back at me by fucking Draco Malfoy in the loo in my family home? Tch. Figures." He held onto the railing of the stairway, trying to stay upright. "It's not like I slept with any of your friends."

Draco gazed down at Hermione, hoping she could read his preemptive regret. He dropped his arm back to his side and slowly turned to face him. He held the Weaselbee's gaze with a murderous one of his own, sending all of his hatred and rage in his direction.

The Weaselbee leaned back.

"Start. Walking," he growled. "Down the fucking stairs . . . _Now."_

"I told you, this is _my_ house."

" _Now_!" Draco roared, ripping his wand out of his sleeve and taking a threatening step toward him.

The Weaselbee crumpled like a paper tower, scrambling back down the stairs with several terrified glances over his shoulder. Draco stood with his back to Hermione for a second, seething and vibrating with the distinct image of himself slamming the Weaselbee's head into a wall plaguing his mind's eye.

"Draco . . ."

Hermione's hand on his arm pulled him out of the inferno and he turned back around.

"You should probably go," she said. "I don't see this situation getting any better."

Draco heaved a sigh. His eyes flickered back towards the loo and then down to her again. He raised his eyebrows.

"How do I know you're not going to do it?"

"You have to trust me."

"I simply don't."

She gave him an exasperated look, which he returned, and then she clasped her hands in front of her.

"Draco, _please_. It's not that much food."

"If it's not that much food, then you can stand to keep it down."

"You told me in your letter to _try_ to keep it down."

"And I'm telling you _now_ , to keep it the fuck down," he said.

She looked near hysterics. Touching her fingers near her temple, she closed her eyes and said, "Draco. I'm going to do it whether you're here or not. So, you can either accept it, or cry about it later."

Draco felt her words like a barbed wire whip. He knew now that it wasn't _her_ that was talking to him—it was the part of her that was desperate to be empty. The part that needed to deal with everything that the Weaselbee had made her feel.

He wanted to fix it.

"Come with me," he said, holding his hand out to her. "Come with me back to the Sunamuras' cottage. They decorated way thicker than you decorated the common room, and I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

Surprise crested on her face. "You mean . . . The friend of your family's that you told me about?"

"Yes. They're the only family I have now." And so was she.

Hesitancy took up residency in her eyes, and Draco took his hand back. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Those are your options. Purge and stay here. Or keep it down and come with me."

"Or keep it down and stay here." She frowned.

"But do you really want to stay here?"

She was silent.

"Which do you want more?" he asked. "To stay here, with him? Or to come with me?"

She lowered her gaze, appearing thoughtful.

"I want to be with you."

His heart skipped a beat at the words, even if he knew they were niche. "But to come with me, you have to agree to keep it down."

She pursed her lips. ". . . Fine. Fine, I'll come with you."

"Yeah?" He couldn't help it—the smile spread across his face.

"Yes."

He bent down and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her into the air and ignoring her cry of dissent. She cradled his face between her hands and raised her eyebrows.

"I don't like how smug you look."

"I like getting my way," he said, smirking.

"Established. Set me down."

He set her down, pretending not to notice her sour expression and the somewhat longing look she sent back to the loo. But he was proud to see her turning the light off and walking back out into the hallway.

"Let's go say good-bye to everyone," she said.

"Hey."

She turned to look up at him. He searched her eyes.

"You don't have to 'get over' anything, do you hear me? No matter what anyone says, your pain—" He reached out to touch his finger to her chest, right over her heart. "—is yours. It's yours to process for as long as it takes. Anyone who sees your worth will be there, no matter how many years go by. Even if it takes eternity, the right person will have patience and do what it takes to make you feel safe again. The right person—" He touched her heart again, lifting his eyebrows. "—won't leave you in Paris without a wand."

She tilted her head to the side. "Like a soulmate?"

He took his time replying.

"Yeah. Like a soulmate."

She bit her lower lip, engaging in a visible silent debate with herself. Then, she rose up to present her lips to him. He moved his hand from her chest to her jaw and caressed it as he kissed her. After one last lingering look, they went down the stairs to face the Weasleys.

* * *

". . . And I looked at her and said, ' _Narcissa_ . . .' I said, ' _Narcissa, don't you think you ought to take his toys away from him when he acts like that?_ _'_ And she looked at me and said, ' _Any time I take anything away from him, he sits me down to give me a thirty-minute speech about why he deserves to have them back. And he demands a new toy to make up for the time he lost with the old ones.'_ "

At the tail end of Ryo's words, Hermione dissolved into a fit of giggles so severe that she had tears dripping from overflowing eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand, laughing and laughing and laughing. Her laughter was infectious, spreading like wildfire to Draco, who was able to push the pain of his mother's memory aside to laugh with her. Rose laughed, too, a sound that drifted below the hearty volume of Ryo's.

They'd been sitting in the living room for the past thirty minutes, talking stories and answering all sorts of questions. Ryo and Rose both didn't mind Hermione being there, but they seemed to be interested in getting to know her, so they asked about her studies, her life, her experience with the press after the war, and her hobbies. They avoided talking about the war itself and they seemed to get the hint not to ask why Draco and Hermione had decided to leave the Burrow and come back to their cottage.

Strangely, Draco felt like he'd brought a girlfriend home. Like he'd brought her to meet his parents.

Rose stood up while Ryo launched into another story of Draco's childhood that he remembered from a past holiday visit, wandering into the kitchen. While he spoke, Hermione settled in. She was perched on the arm of the recliner chair Draco currently sat in, her legs curled up under her. Her arm rested somewhat on the top of Draco's shoulder, and she had her temple propped against her palm.

Thankfully, they'd both seen fit to remove their Weasley sweaters when they go to the Sunamuras. As lovely as it was that Molly had knitted them herself, they really were horrid to wear. Draco was certain his neck was going to have a rash within hours if he didn't take it off as soon as he could. Now, he was comfortable in trousers and a tee shirt, and Hermione was in her leggings and a jumper that she'd borrowed from him.

As Ryo continued, Draco slipped his arm around her waist, his fingers tracing circles on her thigh where no one could see. She shifted closer to him.

Rose returned, floating plates of cake towards everyone. Draco and Ryo accepted theirs, immediately taking bites. Ryo tucked in, complimenting Rose's baking. A plate hovered in front of Hermione.

Draco exchanged glances with Rose.

Would she take it?

"What is it?" Hermione asked, her tone polite. "If you don't mind my asking?"

"It's a simple vanilla sponge cake with chocolate buttercream frosting," Rose said, smiling. "Is that all right? I can get you something else?"

"No, no!" Hermione cried, and she accepted the floating plate. "This is all right. I love cake."

She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. Then, she took another. And another. Draco felt his emotions swirling, warring with one another. Part of him felt happy to see her eating more. Another felt concerned for how it would make her feel, especially given that he'd made her keep her dinner down.

"Great!" Ryo said. "Rose is an excellent cook, but her baking is my favorite part of our marriage."

"Just the baking?" Rose teased, sitting beside him on the couch. "I should feel hurt!"

"I'm only joking, my love." Ryo leaned over to share a kiss with his wife, and then gave her a look that spoke of adoration. "You are my favorite part of our marriage."

"And you are mine."

They kissed again, and Draco looked down at his cake, a lock of his hair falling into his face. His cheeks were warm. He took another bite of his dessert to hide his mild embarrassment, and then felt fingers brushing his cheek. He glanced up and saw Hermione looking at him. Her lips twisted up into a half-smile as she combed his hair back.

"Draco, have you ever told Hermione about the time you tried to trick the goblins at Gringotts into letting you into your father's special savings vault in your Fourth Year? The one that required express permission _only_ from him?"

Hermione's gaze tore away from Draco's face. "He did _what_?"

"Ohhh, yeah," Ryo said, pointing his fork in Draco's mortified direction. "And I'm gonna tell you _all_ about it."

They listened to Ryo tell Hermione the story, eating their cake until all four plates were empty. Hermione ate like a normal person, too busy laughing and listening to seem to worry about what she was putting into her body. There were so many times she nearly laughed the food right out of her mouth that Draco was worried she was going to choke.

It was weird, listening to Ryo tell stories of his childhood the way a father would. Lucius wasn't the sentimental type, so he highly doubted he'd sit around a fire and talk stories like this. Narcissa was quiet, but she liked to tell Draco stories of his childhood sometimes.

And he'd give anything to hear her tell one.

The last bite of his cake felt like it was lodged in his throat.

* * *

After the Sunamuras went to bed, Draco and Hermione went to the room that he'd taken as his for the time he was at the cottage.

He closed the door behind him and leaned back against the wood, watching her walk around and study everything.

"I like it," she said. "And I like the Sunamuras. Ryo is very friendly and Rose is kind."

Draco lifted his chin. "So do you regret coming with me tonight?"

She shook her head. "I felt bad for leaving early, but I think they understood. And Ron definitely wasn't happy about it. But I don't much care what he thinks about what I do."

Draco watched as she walked over to the bed, spun on one foot, and sunk down onto it. She was frowning, lost in thought. He wondered what she could be thinking.

After another second, he turned the light off, pushed away from the door, and went to join her. He sat down beside her, the mattress bouncing a bit.

"How are you feeling about the cake?"

She smiled in an almost accusatory, confused way. "You're so invested."

"Of course I'm invested," he said, because they were alone. "I care about you."

She averted her face towards the other side of the room. "I don't know why."

"Stop that," he said, grabbing her chin and pulling it back to face him. She couldn't seem to maintain eye contact. "What's the matter?"

"I'm nervous."

"What? Why? It's just me." He placed his free hand behind her on the blankets to prop himself up. His thumb caressed her chin as he scrutinized her. "Worried about sharing a bed with me again?"

"Maybe."

He smirked. "You wanna sleep on the couch? We can charm it into a bed for you."

"No." She gave him a revolted look. "Are you mental? I'm sleeping in here with you."

Before he could say anything, she pulled out of his grasp and crawled behind him, clambering towards the pillows. Draco laughed when she slid beneath the covers and pulled them up to her nose. Then, he stood.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice muffled.

He walked over to his things, where he picked up his trackies and tossed them onto his side of the bed "I'm putting on my pyjamas. That all right with you?"

"I suppose."

"Want me to transfigure you some?"

She stared at him for a long moment, for as long as it took for him to step out of his trousers and stand there in black pants and his shirt, and then she spoke.

"Can't I just wear your shirt?"

He threw his head back and laughed again. "Yeah, all right."

Draco pulled his trackies on, tying the drawstrings, and then reached over his head to pull his shirt off by the back of the neck. She sat up and took his shirt from him. He was about to ask her if he should turn around when she casually reached for the hem of her jumper and pulled it over her head. Then, in another extraordinary show of trust, she stood up on the mattress, teetering as she pulled her leggings off.

Except that it _wasn't_ casual. He knew exactly what strength it took for her to reveal herself to him. And she was standing there on his bed, wearing naught but her brassiere and knickers. He tried not to look at her for too long, but it was difficult.

She was achingly beautiful, too.

Hermione pulled his shirt on, and the hem fell to the middle parts of her thighs, dwarfing her like the sweater had that day. She sunk back down to the bed and under the coverlet. He saw her gaze flitting about his body, from shoulders to hips to fingertips.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Her gaze returned to his face.

"Look at me that way."

"Because," she said, "I like your tattoos."

"Do you like them?" he asked, crawling into the bed with another smirk on his face. "Or do you _like_ them?"

She shrunk back, looking up at him hovering over her in the moonlight that spilled across the bed from the cottage window. "I like them. They look like they took a lot of time."

"They did take a lot of time. A lot of money, too."

"Something you have no shortage of."

"You just love to be right, don't you?" He slipped beneath the covers, and he felt his feet brushing hers. They were ice cold, but he didn't mind it.

"I'm not opposed to it. Hold me."

Draco obliged, sliding one arm beneath her and curving it around her back. With his other hand, he began to touch her, his fingertips tracing lines along her face, neck, shoulder, and arm. They sunk into her hair, scratching along the back of her scalp. They tickled the back of her neck, and he pretended not to feel her shivering.

"So, what do the roses mean?" she asked, her breath hot against his bare chest. He felt her fingers drifting along his neck.

"Huh?"

"Remember when we were doing rounds, and I asked you what the roses meant?"

"You mean when you tricked me into doing rounds with you so you could practice revenge on your ex-wizard that you never ended up going through with carrying out?"

". . . You're a prat, but yes. I remember when I asked you, you hesitated. What do they actually mean?"

Back then, things had been a lot different. He hadn't known about the bond. He hadn't had such strong feelings for her. But now, all he could think about was her. All he wanted to do was protect her and keep her.

Maybe if he was honest, she'd want to stay?

"I got these tattoos," he said slowly, gentle as he touched her curls and felt them sifting through his fingers, "because I needed to find a way to represent the way it felt to watch my aunt hurt you that day in the Drawing Room."

She stiffened in his arms but said nothing.

"The chains represent how it felt to know that I could do something to help you, but that I was too cowardly to. They represent feeling trapped by rules and societal constructs. By fear. The roses are thornless, and if you've noticed, they're at full bloom even though the chains are wrapped around them. It's because even though you were trapped by chains, too, you were still trying to be strong. Still trying to bloom. And I found that beautiful."

The silence rang.

"You got a tattoo for me?" she whispered, and he felt her hand pressing to one of the roses on his throat. "For _me_?"

He gazed at the wall past her head. "Yeah. I guess I did."

"I—Thank you. I don't know what to say. Just . . . Thank you."

His hand trailed down to the end of a curl and let go. He watched it bounce back into place. "You weren't ever supposed to find out, of course. My tattoos are for me. I think they're how I deal with my emotions."

"Draco Malfoy has _emotions_?"

"Shut up," he said, his lips curling upward. "Sometimes, it feels like the war was a lifetime away, but the emotions and everything I felt still feels fresh. The tattoos give me something corporeal to focus on. A place to put those like, emotions."

"Yeah," she replied softly. "It feels like it was yesterday and twenty years ago, all at the same time. Sometimes I can't focus in class because it all feels so pointless. I can't decide whether I'm terrified he's going to come back, or terrified that he's not."

"Is that why you haven't decided what you want to do after Hogwarts?"

Draco knew he was asking a lot—that he was digging too deep, especially given his opinion on this topic had been formed from watching her memory of Paris—but he wanted to know. He wanted to know _her_.

He wanted to know everything about her.

"I haven't decided what I want to do because I'm scared. I don't know who I am or what I enjoy, and I don't want to get stuck in a career that brings me no joy. Part of me wants to travel far away and never come back." She was quiet for a moment, and he felt the heat of her gaze against his chest. "I made a mistake in dating Ron. I ruined our friendship. I ruined what we had with Harry. I can feel us growing apart by the day and it makes me question everything I thought I knew. Everything I thought I deserved."

"Because you think it's your fault?"

"It _is_ my fault. If I would have just . . . Been a little more _normal_ about it all, perhaps I would have married Ron."

Except that she never would have been happy if she did. Not if she was bonded to Draco and never knew it.

"There's no such thing as normal," Draco said, his hand curving tight around her waist. His other hand traced through the hair at the top of her head. "And if you were, you'd be pretty fucking boring, don't you think?"

She giggled. "Yeah, maybe."

"The war may not be a lifetime away right now, but someday it will be. Don't get hung up on the way you feel right now because it won't last forever. Nothing does."

"Nothing except the bond."

His heart skipped a beat. She was right about that. He just didn't know how she felt about it anymore. Every encounter they had brought them deeper and deeper into the bond. Every time they kissed, he knew he could feel himself falling faster. Every step brought them closer to the third level.

Consummation.

"Should I tell them what happened?"

"Who?" he asked, shifting in the bed so he was slightly on his back. She followed, pillowing her head on his chest and arm. "What?"

"The Weasleys. Harry. Ron. Everyone. Should I tell them what happened in Paris?"

He felt his hackles rising, but didn't show it outwardly. He didn't know if it was because he didn't want anyone to know and be privy to those darker sides of her, or if it was because he was afraid she wouldn't need him anymore. He just knew he felt uncomfortable.

"Is that what you wanna do?" he said.

"You don't want me to?"

"They don't deserve to know that information if they couldn't see the forest for the trees, Hermione. It took you almost thirty minutes before you started eating at dinner, and they didn't even notice."

"Did _you?_ " she countered.

"Did I what?'

"Did _you_ deserve to know that information?" She lifted up onto her elbow so she could look down at him. "Because last I checked, I didn't invite you into the memory. The tea made me more susceptible to allowing you in. It weakened me. So, you saw it. But at the time, did you deserve to know?"

He frowned, studying the moonlit glow of her face as he tried to find an answer to her question. Because once again, she was right. She was always right. He didn't deserve to know anything about her at that time. He didn't even deserve to have access to her dreams like he had for the past five years.

Who was he to decide who did?

"No one has a right to you, Hermione," he said after a second of thought, gazing up into her eyes. "No one. Especially me. I don't think you should tell them until you feel they've earned that right _because_ I didn't deserve to know. And I'll spend every day that I can earning that right posthumously to prove it."

Her brows twitched together and she laid back down, her hair soft against his skin and her face turned out towards the bedroom.

As they laid there in silence for a bit, Draco wondered to himself if maybe he wasn't doing enough. If perhaps he wasn't fighting hard enough or doing as much as he could to really help her. Was she getting worse, or getting better? Was any part of her healing at all?

Was he making a difference?

He closed his eyes for a moment as a strange emotion overtook him, rumbling in his chest and rising to an ache in his throat. The hand of his that wasn't on her waist rose to rub at his eye as he fought against his desire to burst into the same rare tears that he shed for his mother.

What if he wasn't making a difference? What if all of this was for nothing and she was going to die, just like his mother?

"Draco?" she whispered.

"Yeah?" His voice cracked, hoarse and throaty.

"I ate a lot today."

He stroked her waist in a comforting motion. "No, you didn't. It was half a dinner plate, and one slice of cake."

"You asked how I felt about the cake earlier. I'm _telling_ you how I felt about the cake."

"Okay, well it really wasn't a lot. I'm telling you that it wasn't a lot because you aren't able to think clearly." He was careful with his words, not wanting her to know he'd done his reading.

"I'm going to gain."

"No," he sighed, "you're not."

"Yes, I am." She rolled onto her back, her hands waving in the air as she ranted. "You don't understand anything about this. I have barely kept anything down in weeks. I've gone multiple days without keeping a single morsel inside of my body, which means that I will gain on small amounts of food. So, the cake matters. The dinner matters."

"You won't gain any real weight that way. And anyway, is that what it's really about? Numbers and weight? I thought you said—"

"It's not about the numbers, no. It's about the fact that I know what's going to happen days in advance because I track everything. I _plan_ everything. I know exactly what I'm supposed to weigh two weeks from now. I plan for contingencies, and this went _way_ outside of my plan. My contingencies take into account how much I can exercise away on my own, and this was way more than I'll be able to exercise off. It's going to set me back."

"Set you back?" He sighed again. "Set you back from what? Some arbitrary goal?"

"Yes."

"And what happens when you reach your goal?" He shook his head, hovering somewhere between annoyed and worried. "You turn into a unicorn and gallop off into the nether?"

"When I reach my goal, I see if I like myself. If everything feels better. If it doesn't, I make a new goal."

Alarm bells.

"What, _smaller_?" He tried to sit up, but she beat him to it, pressing her hand flat to his chest so he remained lying down. "Hermione, no. Absolutely not."

She laughed. "You think it's your choice?"

He wasn't doing this with her. His gaze flattened, hardened like rock. "Absolutely fucking not. I swear to Godric if you try to go smaller than whatever your goal is now, I will _fucking_ lose my shite."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Okay."

"Granger."

" _Okay_! God. Okay." She looked away and then said, "Thank you for not commenting on it."

"On what?"

"My body. A bit ago—when I was changing. I know it looks bad, but—"

"Stop."

She looked down at him, her hair falling over the front of one shoulder. Her expression was almost shy. Guilty. Like she was apologizing for her body. He hated it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, turning away again so that she was looking down the end of the bed, at the bedroom door. "I know I'm being selfish. I'm a horrible person. I should not even be saying this to you because it manipulates you into caring about me."

"You're not selfish, and you're not a horrible person." He placed his hand on her back, his heart wrenching at the way he could feel every bone in her ribcage. "You just need help. And saying you're _making_ me care about you is stupid. What, like you don't deserve to have anyone care about you? No, you're not a horrible person."

"I am," she said, her voice getting smaller. "I'm not a good person at all. I'm the worst person I know. I must be to . . . I don't deserve good things, and I should _not_ have eaten that cake. The food was bad enough, but the cake, too? Godric, I'm so _disgusting_ and—"

The moment he heard her let out the first sob, he sat up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He bent his head, peering and seeing that she was holding a hand over her mouth to stifle the cries.

"I'm sorry," she said from behind her palm. "I don't w-want to w-wake them up, I j-just—"

"Shh, it's all right," he whispered, rubbing her arm while he used his other hand to wipe her tears. "This is why I didn't want you to purge. Because I'm here."

"But Draco." She looked up at him with big, tear-filled eyes. "You can't take the place of the emptiness."

Draco wanted to cry at that. He couldn't stand himself sometimes. Hermione did not need him to cry right now. She needed him to be strong.

"I know," he said, bending his arm to use his knuckles to push her chin upward. He looked into her eyes. "But right now, just pretend I can."

Her lower lip trembled and the tears began to fall again. He cupped the side of her head and pulled her close. He felt her tears wetting his skin, dripping down his chest, and he held her while she cried for a while.

Holding her like this, it was so, so fucking difficult to imagine a life where he didn't get to hold her anymore. When he didn't get to be the one who she cried to. When he wasn't the person she could break down for. To imagine a life without her in it, whether because she kept with her decision to reverse the bond, or because she died.

He was scared as fuck.

"You know with me," he whispered, "you would never want for anything, right?"

"What?" she mumbled, sniffling.

"If you chose to accept the bond and stay with me, I would make sure you never felt irrelevant. I would make sure that you had every fucking thing you ever dreamed of, and I wouldn't stop until I was sure that you were happy. I would make sure we had a home of our own, far away from anything that's ever caused you pain." His heart raced. "We would go anywhere you wanted. Do anything you want. If you chose to be with me, then I would make sure you have everything you think you don't deserve."

She searched his eyes, tears still rolling down over the apples of her cheeks. "What if I wanted to live in another country?"

"Any country you want."

"And if I wanted children?"

"Then you'd have them."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we'll have thirty-five kneazles."

"Can we go to heavy metal shows in London?"

"And sneak onto the roof? Hell yeah."

"And decorate our Christmas tree the Muggle way?"

"Every year."

"Make it thirty-six kneazles, and you've got yourself a deal. Because I have a half-kneazle at the Weasleys'. He was just hiding."

"From me?"

"You're terrifying."

They stared at each other, and then their faces shattered into simultaneous grins. Uncontrollable giggles escaped her mouth, mingling with his overwhelming laughter. Draco's heart swelled to bursting.

He needed this. _Needed_ her.

Then, as fast as it had come, her mirth faded. Like a fading sunset, her face fell into a sad excuse for a smile.

"I don't know if I can see myself in a life like that. Happy, with a house and a family of my own," she said. "I don't think I deserve it."

"Why wouldn't you deserve it?" he asked, his tone almost cajoling. "Huh? Bad people don't deserve good things. You do."

"What do you define as a bad person, though?"

He thought for a moment, watching as she wiped her face. He pursed his lips.

A bad person. There was a time where he would have considered himself a bad person.

Until the Dark Lord swept through his life and destroyed his family, killing thousands along the way. Until he saw the way the Weaselbee treated Hermione. Until he saw the man in Paris go from being a passerby to a monster.

How could Hermione see herself in the same vein?

"Someone who goes out of their way to hurt other people and doesn't feel remorse. Someone who hurts other people without taking responsibility for the fact that they've done it, and does everything they can to get their own way, regardless of who it hurts. Someone like that doesn't deserve to live, let alone have good things."

She arched her eyebrow. "What if I can't take responsibility because I'll want to end my life if I do?"

Was she speaking hypothetically?

"If you went out of your way to hurt someone for your own gain, then I'd have no sympathy for you if you couldn't take responsibility," he explained. He wasn't meaning _her_ specifically; he hoped she realized that.

"If I'm such a bad person, then it doesn't matter, right?" Her voice rose, and then after a quick glance to the door, she lowered it again. "It doesn't matter if I'm dead."

Was she talking about _herself_? Was this not hypothetical?

In a slight panic, he pulled his arm away from her and pushed his hair back. "Look, I thought you were—"

"Because what you don't understand, Draco," she said, cutting him off with anger in her tone, "is that when you say that people who do bad things don't deserve good things, you're not understanding that we _all_ do bad things. We _all_ do things that we can't take responsibility for. That doesn't mean we don't deserve good things! It just means we're people who've made bad choices."

"So, then why are you telling me you're a bad person, Hermione?" He held both hands to his temples. "By that logic, you're just a person who's done bad things."

"Yes, and that means I don't deserve good things."

He stared at her, incredulous. Where was this coming from?

"Stop looking at bad choices and equating them to verdicts," he said. "I don't think you understand what I was saying."

"Murder is a bad choice." She pushed a curl behind her ear. "That's equal to a verdict for me."

"But we're not talking about murder. That's an entirely different topic. Because you're calling yourself a bad person when you haven't murdered anyone."

"I'm manipulative," she said, and he heard the notes of challenge in her tone. She was arguing with him. She was actually _arguing_ her belief that she was a horrible person who didn't deserve to live.

What did she think he was going to _say_?

"That doesn't make you a bad person!" he said. He glanced behind him for a second, debating grabbing his wand off of the bedside table so he could cast a _muffliato_. But he didn't want to give himself an excuse to yell. "Salazar fuck, who is _telling_ you this?"

"Everyone. No one." She shrugged and threw her hands up. "No one has to say it for me to know it. It's in the way they treat me. It—it's the way I look. I act like a bitch, so Ron called me a bitch. My voice isn't sweet enough. _I'm_ not sweet enough. I'm not quiet and I speak what's on my mind, and that's not supposed to be a bad thing. And where did it get me? In a back alley of Paris with my nylons around my thighs." Draco flinched at her words. "So that must mean it was a bad thing the entire time. I'm a bitch, Draco, and that's why I'm a bad person who doesn't deserve good things."

She believed that because she spoke her mind and stood up for herself that night with the Weaselbee, that it had led to her being assaulted. And that that made her a _bad person_? Where did the manipulation come in?

Okay, she didn't exactly sound like she was thinking clearly.

He wracked his brain, sifting through the information he'd learned from the books. It had to be the lack of nutrients. They had to have warped her brain in a way that made her actually believe that she was such a bad person for whatever reason, and that she didn't deserve to live.

Draco had no idea why she wanted to have this conversation with him, but he wasn't going to miss the opportunity to make sure she knew how he felt.

"No." He shook his head, pulled his knees to his chest, and rested his elbows atop them. He tangled his hands in his hair. "No. You're wrong. You're not a bitch—you speak your mind. That doesn't make you a bitch, and it doesn't mean you deserve bad things. Even if you _were_ a bitch, you still wouldn't deserve bad things to happen to you. That's _mental_."

"I'm manipulative, Draco. I am _manipulative_ and that means I'm toxic. Toxic people are bad people. I'm a bad person and I don't deserve—"

"Shut up!" he snapped, feeling overwhelmed with an anger that had nothing to find foundation on. "Who the fuck is _telling_ you this?!"

"No one has to say it for me to know it." Her voice bordered on monotone.

Fuck. He should have brought weed.

"Hermione, listen to yourself. We all manipulate people sometimes. We all make bad choices. None of us are perfect. By your logic, what's the point of _living_?"

The dam broke.

"I don't know!" she cried, forgetting the volume of her voice. "It's not like anyone would care if I was gone. If I'm such a bad person—if I'm so toxic and so evil, then why do I deserve to live?!"

Draco was speechless. He had no idea how to respond because it was all untrue. It was so beyond untrue that he didn't know how to articulate to her how untrue it was.

Her eyes filled with tears. Again.

"You can't even answer the question."

He spoke slowly, because his shock was that deep. "Because it's an absurd question."

"Because it's true, and you know it!" Desperation spun in her eyes. Her voice was a near-snarl. "I was a bitch, a know-it-all, and a prude, and that's why Ron treated me the way he did. And it all started with me obliviating my parents, taking their choice away and manipulating them to make sure the war had an outcome that _I_ wanted. My personality is shite. I'm a _bad_ person and you _know_ it."

"Okay, yes," he said, conceding partially. "You obliviated your parents. But ask yourself _why_. Why? Because you wanted to protect them. A bad choice with good intentions doesn't mean you don't deserve good things! You didn't murder anyone. You didn't attack or stalk or bully or . . ."

His words trailed off.

He'd bullied someone.

Her.

Like the Earth spinning around the sun, his thoughts fell into orbit. Suddenly, everything made sense.

She didn't truly think she was a bad person. She didn't _want_ to be a bad person. She was using it as an explanation. Because if she wasn't a horrible person, then none of the bad things that had happened to her would make sense. Nothing made sense, and she needed it to make sense.

And all of that was so overwhelming to deal with that she handled it with food. Calories. Exercise. Purging.

Something she could control.

Something that made sense.

And to top it all off, she had a reprehensible oaf in her ear for months, telling her that if only she wasn't such a prude, everything would have turned out just fine. Maybe if she'd just been a normal girl like Lavender Brown and spread her legs for him, he wouldn't feel like he had to treat her like Thestral shite.

Hermione didn't want to be sick. She didn't want to be sad. She wanted to be herself again. But she couldn't. She was trapped. Stuck in a pit of despair from which the only escape seemed to be death. And she was terrified of it.

She wanted Draco to tell her she deserved to be dead so she didn't have to feel as frightened of what she thought was inevitable.

Draco knew exactly what to say.

"Hermione, look at me."

She did, a pout on her face that he was determined to erase. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, too. The two of them gazed at one another and, after Draco was certain she wasn't going to break eye contact, he spoke.

"I don't know who thinks you're toxic. Even though they're wrong, I can't speak for them. But what I do know for damn fucking certain is that you're _nothing_ like the Weaselbee, and _he_ is toxic. You're nothing like the Dark Lord. _He_ was toxic. And you're not a single thing like the man that raped you. _He_ was toxic.

"So stop taking a disgusting, reprehensible word that's reserved for truly, _truly_ bad people, and applying it to yourself. Setting aside what I think, you have to look inside yourself and ask yourself what makes a truly, _truly_ bad person and remember that abusing people, murdering them, and raping them is _not_ the same fucking thing as obliviating your parents for their protection. It's not the same thing as having an eating disorder and hurting yourself. It's not the same thing as telling me you're sad and struggling. It's not the same fucking thing at all."

He paused for a moment, ignoring the fact that she was crying again.

"You're not toxic. You're not bad. You're just a person who needs help, and who needs to know how fucking amazing she is. If I have to scream it into your face, then I will. No— _look_ at me . . . You are amazing, Hermione. Your personality is _fucking_ amazing. You're fucking amazing, and anyone who can't see that is _severely_ missing out.

"The fact of the matter is this: a _truly_ bad person can't be defined by imperfect people. Only a perfect person has the power to decide who is bad and who is good. This world is made up of imperfect people passing judgment on other imperfect people. Whether you're objectively bad or good, does it matter? I still want you."

Her eyes widened in fractions as realization dawned on her. As his words settled deep down into her psyche and forced her to see herself through his eyes. And the moment he saw it click, he reached over to hook his hand behind the back of her neck.

"Do you hear me? _I_ _still want you_."

Hermione closed her eyes against the tears that clung to her lashes. The moonlight spilled opalescent and dim across her face, and he could see it there.

She was savoring it before her tears watered it down into something bearable.

He kissed her as she crumbled, swallowing her sobs with his lips and tongue. He cradled her face between his hands and devoured every part of her that hated herself, wishing that he could take every burden away from her and stow it somewhere else.

She arched her back towards him, closer and closer, until his hand was on her thigh, pulling her across his lap. Their hips slotted together. His heart slammed against the cage of his chest, beating just for her as her fingers explored his chest and fluttered up the sides of his neck.

And he did want her. He didn't care how short a time it had been. He knew what he felt. He knew what he wanted. He wanted her—every part of her, even the parts that she thought were rubbish.

"Wait—" she whispered between kisses. Her hands were shaking. "We can't—You know that we—"

"We won't," he murmured, touching the tip of his tongue to the spot beneath her ear so he could hear her whimper. "I just want to show you how good you are."

He caught a glimpse of the shy look on her face before he was attacking her throat, suckling at every part that he could with a sensual tongue. She gasped over and over, until it became clear that she was trying to keep the sounds she wanted to make inside. He felt her hands curving around the back of his skull, her fingers searching deep through his hair, and he moaned into her ear.

Hermione dipped her head down and began to explore the column of his throat. His skin, as sensitive as though it were new, tickled and tensed. He felt another moan growing in his chest. He dug his fingers into the flesh of her thighs, letting out a stuttering breath.

" _Fuck,"_ he whispered. " _Fuck,_ Hermione. That feels so good, it—"

His eyes rolled up into his head when she traced one of his roses with her tongue. He moaned again, his head falling back against the pillows and his chest rising faster. It was like a star, seconds away from supernova.

He was going to lose control of himself.

Her teeth scraped his pulse, sucking. His teeth clenched. His hands crept closer to her backside, pulling her until she was grinding against his hardness. A hiss escaped him, tapering off into a masculine whimper, and a shiver caused his shoulders to spasm.

And then her lips brushed his ear. Her hands began to drift down the planes of his abdomen. Her back arched down towards him and he felt her breasts through the fabric of his borrowed shirt.

"I want to make you come," she breathed. "Can I?"

Hearing her voice, promising him ecstasy and opening herself up to him like that? It was the epitome of erotic.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned, turning his face towards hers to brush his lips against hers. "Please."

She pressed a light, almost chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her hand continued downward. His fingers trailed up to her waist, twisting and clenching in the shirt as she reached beneath the waistbands of his trackies and pants.

His mind spun on a carousel. He hadn't expected anything like this. He'd assumed any time they did anything like this, she'd be on the receiving end. He hadn't thought she was ready.

What if she was only doing this because she felt pressured? What if it was because they were alone in his room in what was the equivalent to some random cottage for her?

"You don't have to," he said, starting to push her back by the waist. "This isn't—"

Her hand wrapped around him, tight and firm. His eyes met hers, the look of concern in his contrasting with the determined look in hers. He was harder than he could ever remember being, so hard that he pulsed in the circle of her hand. He could feel each of her fingers like a separate entity.

"How do you like it?" she asked, and her tone was as logical as though she were completing an essay, or studying for a group project. Her gaze traversed his face, taking in his facial expression like it would tell her what to do if he couldn't.

He could, of course. But Draco wasn't exactly the shy type.

"I don't want to scare you," he said, forcing his attention away from her hand and up to the conversation. He took one hand off her waist and rested it against the side of her throat. The look he gave her was as serious as he could manage. "If you want to stop, we can."

"I don't want to stop. I didn't ask to stop." She raised her eyebrows and squeezed her hand as she dragged it slowly upward. He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to buck his hips upward. "I asked you how you liked it."

He cursed and kissed her again. His fingers twisted in her curls, tight enough to see her wince. His gaze burned.

"I want to see you cry."

Her eyes dropped to his lips and then returned to his eyes.

"So make me cry."

Her words cleared his mind, wiping it like a slate. Within moments, he was snogging her into oblivion, pulling her hair so that her head tilted all the way back. The kiss was hardly better than sloppy, but she had somehow found the wherewithal to start moving her hand up and down the length of him.

And it was _good_.

Draco felt every nerve in his body catching flame. He was already seeing stars, watching them spin for eons behind his closed eyelids. His other hand drifted down to cover hers, showing her how fast he wanted her to go, and then the stars exploded.

"Do you want me to show you how I want it?" he breathed, gasping.

"Y-Yes."

"Harder. Squeeze har— _fuck_. Yeah, that's it. That's it." He hissed as he felt the blood pounding in his loins. "Ah, fuck. You're so fucking good. You're so—What are you . . . ?"

She had moved to straddle his legs. She looked up at him through her lashes, not saying a word as she arched her backside upward and bent towards him. Objectively, he knew he should stop her. He should stop her and ask her if she wanted to go this far.

But she looked so pretty with her lips wrapped around his cock like that.

Her mouth enveloped him, slow and sure as she lowered her head farther. And farther. And farther still. Until he was at the back of her throat. And then she sucked.

It was too much.

His head fell back and he groaned to keep from moaning too loudly and waking the Sunamuras. She felt like heaven. It felt so good that he wasn't sure he was going to be able to last. Looking down at her, at the plumpness of her lips as she pulled back up.

Had she done this _before?_

"Fuck. Fuck." He was whimpering, unable to think clearly. Distantly, he knew this wasn't at all what he'd thought she'd be ready for. He worried she might regret it. But her hair was so soft. He was falling apart for her. "Hermione— _fuck."_

He yanked on her curls, pulling her back up until her tongue swirled around the head and his hips jerked. He bit his lip, whining in his throat to keep quiet.

"Do that again," he pleaded, their gazes locked. His hips rolled upward. "Gods, please—please, you fucking—good _fucking_ girl. Oh, my _fuck_."

Draco was barely coherent. It was too easy for him to focus on the velvet, smooth heat of her mouth. The way she seemed to either know what she was doing, or know what she was supposed to do. What she thought he wanted to hear her say. He didn't even know if that made sense.

Circe, she was good at this.

She rose up again until her mouth came free of him.

"What do you want to do to me?" she asked in a sweet, hoarse voice, her hand moving fast and hard along his slick flesh. His toes curled against the sheets. He was trapped between her thighs.

He didn't think about the fact that she might not be very experienced. He couldn't. He just spoke to her the way he wanted to.

"I wanna fuck your mouth," he hissed, his stomach twisting and clenching as her tongue darted out to taste him again. She looked up into his eyes as she did it. "I wanna fucking come in your mouth."

"I want you to," she whispered, and she looked sincere.

Salazar fuck.

Okay, he needed to gain some control back.

"Have you ever done this before? Do you know how?"

She nodded. "Once, this Summer."

He didn't need to ask more. Didn't want to. He just wanted it to be better for her. But he knew he looked wrecked. He _felt_ wrecked. His hair was in his eyes and he could feel himself trembling as he hovered somewhere between desperation and release.

"I really, really don't want to overwhelm you," he said, propping himself up on his elbow so he could reach down and caress her face.

"I want you to do whatever you want to me," she said, closing her eyes for a moment. "I trust you, and I want it to be you."

Draco stared at her, his thumb pressing and pulling on her swollen lower lip. Feeling the soft skin beneath his fingertip and imagining himself biting it.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I don't want any part of them to be a part of me anymore," she said, lowering her gaze. "I feel safe with you. I want it to be _you_."

His heart clenched tight. Small. It curled into a box and locked itself there.

If that's what she wanted, then he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He didn't want to.

"Yeah?" he growled, and then his hand moved to the front of her throat. He began to squeeze. "You want me to be the one to do this to you? You want it to be me that fucks your mouth?"

"Yes," she said, her voice constrained and tiny.

His hand moved around her neck, digging deep into her hair and clenching his hand into a fist within it. "I'm gonna fuck your mouth until you can't breathe, aren't I?"

Her lips twitched up into a smile. "As long as you're quiet. Wouldn't want to wake them up."

He breathed a laugh. "Cheeky brat. Open your fucking mouth."

Still holding his gaze, she opened her mouth and lowered it again. But this time, right when he felt himself entering that slick, soft heat, he took complete control and let the galaxies take over. He tightened his hold on her hair. His hips snapped upward again and again, driving himself in and out of her mouth with an almost vehement force. It was messy and hardly quiet, but it felt so good he was already beginning to quiver. And she seemed to know exactly what to do to make it better for him. A hum here, a flattening of her tongue there.

Minutes later, he was beginning to crumble and praises were flying from his lips like shooting stars.

"You're so fucking perfect. Do it just like that—just like that. Fuck. _Fucking_ fuck. Oh, you fucking perfect fucking—" A choked moan left his lips. He could feel it getting closer, rising to the surface like molten rock beneath the Earth's surface. Her fingernails were digging into his hips, nearly breaking the skin. The pain made him whimper.

He glanced down, his eyes cracking open. There were tears in her eyes from how hard he was pulling her hair, or how long it had been since she'd come up for air. He didn't know. His stomach twisted.

"You look so fucking pretty when you cry with my cock in your mouth," he groaned. "I'm gonna come. I'm right _fucking_ there. Harder."

She sucked harder. A tear rolled down her cheek.

She was so pretty. Why was she so fucking pretty?

He couldn't hold it back any longer.

" _Ah, fuck,"_ he moaned.

Draco felt his entire body shuddering as he came down her throat. His release filled him with electric shocks that ran from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He uttered several more curse words as he watched her swallow every drop he gave, feeling his heart expanding the emptier he got. And then, when he was completely spent, he was quite sure he was never going to leave her for any reason short of death.

Finally, Hermione rose up to hover over him, using one hand to hold herself up as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She had a small, almost mischievous smile on her face. Draco couldn't think about anything other than how perfect she was. She started to crawl up his body.

"Come here," he said, sitting up meet her halfway. "Let me taste myself."

They kissed again, and it was sensual and heated. His hands reached down between them so he could tuck himself back beneath his waistband, and then they were roaming up her back beneath the shirt. As their tongues melded together, he pulled her close. She turned her head, deepening the kiss against a moan the moment her hips rolled against his.

His fingertips splayed out on her back, which arched closer to him. She ground her hips again and again, clearly in no mood to stop anytime soon. He smirked into their kissing, feeling attracted to the fact that pleasuring him had turned her on. He pulled back to look into her eyes.

"Can you be quiet?"

She looked confused. There were still tears on her face. "Quiet? What do you mean?"

He smirked again. "Can you . . . Be quiet?"

She searched his eyes and then her eyebrows rose. Then, averting her eyes, she nodded.

"Are we going too fast?" he asked, tilting his head so he could capture her gaze. "We can stop right now if you want."

She shook her head. "I don't want to stop. I can . . . I can be quiet."

"Good."

She let out a soft cry as he flipped them over, depositing her onto the mattress beneath him. He kissed her neck and ear until she was writhing beneath him, whimpering. Her fingers tugged at his hair. She lifted her knees on either side of him, grinding her hips against his bare torso with no signs of stopping.

The moment he touched her beneath her leggings and knickers, he felt just how turned on she really was. He cursed and slipped his fingers through her arousal, swirling her clit with wet fingers and relishing in the strangled sound she let out. He continued, gentle and slow.

"Keep quiet for me," he murmured into her ear. "Shh. Good girl. You're so good, staying quiet like that."

" _Mm—_ Draco," she whined, one hand over her mouth and the other playing at his ribs. "Draco, I'm—already gonna—gonna—"

Draco didn't switch up his pace, knowing if he went faster or even slower, it would ruin it for her.

Her mouth fell open. Her head tilted backward, her curls becoming tangled against the pillows. She gasped for air and her feet slid against the sheets.

"Tell me when you come, sweet girl," he breathed, dropping a kiss to her bared throat. His tongue traced where his lips had touched, and it caused a deep, throaty moan to escape her. "Come on, you can do it. You're almost there."

"W-Wait, it's—" She squeezed her eyes shut. Another choked sound. Her thighs fell open. "You're—oh, _God_. I—"

She didn't seem to know what she was saying.

Her back arched, her breasts pressing firm to his chest. Her hips twitched. She was shivering, absolutely trembling. Still, he never stopped playing with her body. Never stopped giving her what she needed. What she deserved. What he would give to her ten thousand times over if she let him.

Yet another whine. She opened her eyes, looking at him through a near-delirious haze. Her eyes were filling with tears again, spilling over because they were too full. Full of need.

"Draco, please. Please—I'm so close." Her voice was nothing more than a whine. He loved hearing her whine for him.

"Do you want it?" he said. "Do you want me to make you come?"

"Please," she gasped. "Please, please, please make me come. _Please_."

The plea continued to fall from her lips and then, a few swipes of his fingers later, he had to slam his hand over her mouth to stifle the loud cry that tried to burst forth. Her body reached for the stars and consumed them all, twitching and convulsing beneath him as the orgasm shattered her body beneath his. He watched the emotions flickering across her face, absorbing how absolutely fucking lucky he was.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he whispered, kissing her as he slipped his fingers inside her still trembling body. He swallowed the wail that she uttered when he began to slam them in and out, just like he had in the common room. Hitting the spot behind her pelvic bone that made her go rigid.

Then, he sat up on his knees, his hair in his eyes and a look of pure desire on his face. She lay there, limp and moaning as he dragged her leggings and knickers down to her thighs. He pressed flat on her mons and pinned her down while he fucked her with his fingers until she was begging him to let her come again.

When she did, he looked down into her teary eyes and told her she was beautiful again. She reached for him, exhausted and satisfied, and curled up against his side. It was moments before she was fast asleep.

He held her that night, her head tucked beneath his chin, and realized that even though they hadn't actually had sex, she'd given him everything she possibly could give him. She'd given parts of herself to him that she never would have given had she not completely trusted him.

Hermione trusted _him_.

Draco would do absolutely anything for her.

Absolutely anything.


	30. Chapter 30

**Please remember this is Black Hermione! I am half-Black and need to write characters I can relate to. This story was written to help me heal from my rape and to help me process my feelings and emotions from having Bulimia for 10 years.**

**I don't care about canon. I'm trying to help myself and help people seek recovery and healing. Don't get so hung up on invisible rules.**

**ABSOLUTELY NO BODY TALK, WEIGHT TALK, OR SIZE TALK IN THE REVIEWS IS ALLOWED.**

**TRIGGER WARNING: Degradation kink - with bad etiquette. It's dubious consent. To the max. It also seems super left-field, but it will make sense with further chapters.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Eight**

"I'm _not_ looking forward to going back to class."

Hermione glanced up from where she was standing at the kitchen sink, taking a drink of water. "So drop out."

Draco, who had just entered the kitchenette with only his pyjama trousers on, couldn't help but laugh. He stood behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. "Come off it. I'm not _dropping out_ of Hogwarts. Besides, I haven't gotten a chance to slam my fist into the center of the Weaselbee's face."

"And you're never gonna get the chance," she said, her tone sharp and edged. She gave him a once-over. "I know he's a prat, but he's—or, he _was_ —my friend. And that _does_ count for something."

"Apparently it counts for protection from your overprotective wizard."

She cleared her throat, looking him up and down once more. "I mean it, Draco. Leave him alone. He's a prat, but he's done nothing unforgivable."

"For you."

"No, he hasn't laid a hand on me, and he left me at a pub. What happened after wasn't his intentions. He really hasn't done anything unforgivable."

Draco gritted his teeth. " _For you."_

"Draco. Do _not_. Just leave him alone."

He tightened his hold on her, wishing she could understand that it didn't matter if the weasel hadn't hit her, nor that he left her at the pub without the intent of causing her harm. Draco wished he could tell her that he would do absolutely anything to protect her. At this point, he was completely and utterly hers.

The Weaselbee had built a tower of hatred within Draco's heart that was one wrong move away from toppling over. When it did, Draco feared there would be nothing to stop him from giving the oaf exactly what he deserved.

A short drop and a sudden stop.

"Well anyway, Christmas doesn't last forever," Hermione said, tilting her head to the side to give him access as he dropped fluttering kisses to the side of her throat. "Homework, however, does."

"And Professor Flitwick's droning lectures."

She giggled and set the cup into the sink. Then, as an afterthought, she washed it by hand and set it on the drying rack. "Almost forgot."

"Maybe I should reward you for actually remembering to—"

"Shut up." She whirled in his arms and threw hers around his neck. He tightened his hold on her and lifted her up until she was seated on the counter's edge. "You've already given me plenty of rewards this past week. I don't think I need any more."

Draco smirked and kissed her. "You say that now . . . But tonight, you might be saying something else."

She rolled her eyes. "You're such a prat."

"Hey . . ." His brow furrowed. "Did you ever get my Christmas gift?"

"Oh, um . . ." She grimaced. "Yes, I did. It's beautiful. Really stunning, but . . . I was overwhelmed by it. It looks so expensive."

Draco had stolen it via Legilimency, but he didn't want her to know that. By the time they got to a place where they'd need money—if she chose to stay with him—then he'd have access to the family vaults. He could buy her ten thousand necklaces at that point.

"It wasn't as expensive as you think," he said, picking her up by the waist and setting her back down on the floor. Her hands slid to his chest. "I got it for you because I wanted you to have it. Do you not want it?"

"It's not that." She lowered her gaze, and he saw something familiar flickering there. The same expression he'd seen there the night of their Christmas discussion.

Draco pressed his knuckle to the underside of her chin, forcing it upward with a gentle touch. "You deserve nice things. Put it on."

Her lips were slow to pull up at the corners. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

Her eyes twinkled. "Okay. I'll be right back!"

Draco watched as she darted off down the hall towards her dorm room, which she hadn't slept in since they got back from the Sunamuras. They hadn't done more than snog and touch each other since then, but they both seemed to sleep better when they were sharing a bed. Plus, she was so much more carefree and happy in his dream world.

He had noticed that she never invited him into her dreams, but he supposed it didn't much matter. Hermione dreamed in memories like a book open to all of its pages. Meanwhile, Draco dreamed in the peace of ignorance. Escaping to a world all his own. They both were happier there.

It was difficult to wake up sometimes.

Today had been no different. Hermione managed to wake up on time, but Draco had sat on the grass hill and watched the sea for a little bit extra after she'd left.

Hermione skipped back out, the velvet box in one hand. She hopped to a stop in front of him, grinning like they were still asleep.

"Here, help me put it on." She handed the box to him, and then turned around. He watched her hands carefully holding her long curls up to expose her neck.

Draco opened the box.

There, nestled on white satin was a diamond necklace on a dainty white-gold chain. The pendant was shaped like a sparkling star, with four longer tines and four shorter ones crossing over them. The entire thing was encrusted, and there was a larger princess-cut diamond set in the center where all the points of the star met.

It was fitting.

She fingered the pendant. "It's so beautiful. Really. I felt poorly about not putting on. I'm just not used to . . . To gifts like this. To gifts at all."

His fingers lingered after the clasp was closed. Such a beautiful neck. A neck he wanted to kiss for the rest of his life. For eternity.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the base, right at the top of her spine. She cried out and pitched forward, one hand keeping her hair up and the other smacking on the edge of the counter. She shivered, laughing a bit.

"What?" he murmured, his lips brushing the skin he'd just tasted. His fingers splayed on her abdomen above her robes. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just . . ." She lowered her voice as though they weren't alone. "That's my spot."

"Mm," he hummed, his eyebrows shooting up. He kissed the back of her neck again, hearing her gasp. "I thought your ear was your spot."

"Not like—like th-there," she whimpered. "Draco . . . There's no time. We have class."

"There's time." He tilted his head and added tongue to the places he was kissing. Her back arched.

"No, there's not. But maybe later."

Reluctantly, he stood up straight. "All right, but I'm holding you to it. And for the record?""

She faced him. The pendant stood out, bright against the ebony of her robes. "What?"

"Witches deserve nice things."

Hermione smiled, and it reached her eyes. "Well, this is a very nice thing. But what about wizards?"

"What about them?"

Her eyebrows rose and she reached up to wrap her hands around his school uniform tie. "Don't they deserve nice things, too?"

His blood began to heat. How could she say they had no time, and then give him the same look she'd given him Christmas night?

"Pack it up, little miss There's-No-Time-We-Have-Class," he growled.

They fell into fits of uncontrollable laughter even as they attempted to kiss. Draco wrapped his arms around her, bending her slightly backward as he tried to kiss her past his chuckling. She giggled into his mouth, their tongues brushing a few times before they pulled away.

"So, are you gonna keep the gift?" he asked, reaching up to comb his messy hair back.

"I wasn't sure," she said, her fingers playing with the diamond pendant. "But I think I am now."

Sure she wanted the gift?

Or sure she wanted him?

He smiled. "I'm glad you like it. Anyway, do you wanna go to Hogsmeade for lunch today? Madam Puddifoot's, or something?"

She tapped her chin. "Yes. That's fine. But I was going to go make an appointment with Professor Trelawney. Because you said that the Sunamuras said we should talk to her. I really liked them, by the way."

"You did?"

She nodded. "I thought they were lovely. So is it okay that I make the appointment first?"

"I have to make changes on my Charms essay, so yeah." He scowled. "Professor Flitwick sent me a notice saying he wants me to come to his classroom at the beginning of lunch and fix some mistakes I made."

"So, I'll go make the appointment while you go to the Charms classroom, and then we can meet in front of the Great Hall at 12:30?"

"All right." He swallowed, feeling suddenly nervous. The thought of having Professor Trelawney confirm what his heart already knew made his palms feel slick. What if the confirmation scared Hermione away? What if it drew them closer? "12:30, then."

She dashed off. Then, before he'd even left the kitchenette, she dashed back and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

* * *

Draco glanced down the hall.

Where the fuck was Hermione? It was already almost 1:00. At this rate, they were gonna be late for lunch.

He wasn't even sure if she was going to eat, but he'd managed to get her to eat at least _something_ every day the past week. Yes, there were times they'd spent apart during that week, but as far as he knew, she hadn't been purging in the common room loo. Now that Winter holiday was over, he wanted to make sure he kept an eye on her for at least one meal per day.

So where was she?

"Hey, mate."

Draco, who had been glancing down the corridor, turned to see Blaise and Theo standing there.

"Hey," he said, casting a wary glance over Theo, who's face was impassive. "You guys late for lunch, too?"

"Yeah, we had mistakes on our holiday coursework for DADA," Blaise said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why are you just standing here?"

Draco carefully avoided Theo's gaze. "I'm waiting for Hermione. We're supposed to go to lunch."

"Oh, we saw her," Theo said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. "It was like, a half-hour—forty-five—no, a half-hour ago. She was on her way to—to your guys' common room."

Draco wanted to cringe. It was awkward. There was no way to pretend it wasn't.

Everything had changed between them, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Whether it was jealousy on Theo's part or his own, Draco was certain that Theo felt the same way he did.

They both looked at Blaise.

"What are you . . . ?" He looked perplexed. "Wait, why are you two looking at _me?_ I was with you, Theo _."_

Draco felt concern coloring his face pale. He rubbed his jaw with his fingers, putting one hand on his hip over his robes, which he'd actually chosen to wear today. "And you're sure she was headed to the common room?"

"That's what she said," Blaise said. "She was running though, so she was in a hurry. Were you supposed to meet her there, or something?"

"Nah," Draco replied, glancing past him. "I was—Shite."

Hermione rounded the corner, her arms crossed over her chest. She still wore her robes, so she hadn't changed. Her gaze was downcast, like she didn't care if she ran into a wall or another person, and her eyes were rimmed in red. The tawny brown skin of her face was splotched with red and her curly hair seemed limper than usual.

"Whoa," Blaise muttered. "She doesn't look too good."

"Move," Draco growled, shoving between Theo and Blaise as he burst forward to get to her.

He sprinted down the corridor, his mind reeling with all sorts of horrible concerns. Nightmare scenarios he'd read about in the books.

Had she purged and seen spots? Had she passed out from electrolyte imbalance and just woken up? Had her heart skipped beats in palpitations? Did she need to be rushed to St. Mungo's?

He skidded to a halt before her, gripping her elbows and bending to look into her eyes. "What happened? Are you all right? Do you need to go to the Infirmary?"

With a sour expression, she shook her head.

"Okay, then what's the matter? Are you just tired, or something?"

She shook her head again, her arms still hugged around herself. When she spoke, her words were halting, her voice small. Draco could see anger flaring in her eyes. "S-Something . . . Something h-happened."

He clenched his teeth, running his hands up to cup her face. He didn't care that he could hear Blaise and Theo's footsteps on the stone as they drew near.

"Okay," he said slowly, his tone gentle as he searched her eyes. "Tell me what happened, and I'll take care of it."

"No. You can't," she said, pulling herself away from him. She looked irritated. "Just—you can't."

"What do you mean, I can't?" His head pulled back on his shoulders. "Why wouldn't I be able . . ."

His words trailed off into nothingness. He knew exactly why he couldn't. He knew why she didn't want him to take care of whatever it was that needed taking care of. His anger swelled, ire becoming fanned into pure rage, and he ran his hands through his hair.

"All right. Okay." He breathed a laugh, glancing over at Blaise as though he knew what the fuck Draco was on about. "What did he do?"

"He didn't—" Her eyes flashed and she glowered at him. "Nothing."

Another laugh. A gust of incredulous air from his chest.

"What did he _do_ , Hermione?"

"Wait a minute." Blaise held his arm out, the side of his hand touching Draco's chest. "What did who do? What's going on?"

Draco saw Hermione's glare falling down to eye level, where she exchanged a strange glance with Theo. Draco witnessed this, his temper bursting like a _bombarda_ spell.

"Oh, so you can tell him whatever's going on with you, but not me?" he snarled.

Theo sighed, turning to face Draco. "Mate, that's not—"

"Don't call me mate," Draco said, baring his teeth. "I don't know what you two have going on, but—"

"It's not like that!" Hermione cried, and then she lowered her voice, glancing at the open doors to the crowded, boisterous Great Hall. "It's not like that. I was just—looking at him. I don't know."

Draco massaged his temples.

" _What_ did Weasley _do_?!" Draco shouted, his temper rising to the ceiling in an attempt to escape.

"Ron came to the common room," she said, her voice shaking past her heavy sigh. He could tell she'd just gotten done crying. He could tell she was trying not to again. "He came into the common room because he wanted to talk to me about what happened on Christmas."

"Okay." Anger: still rising.

"And I thought he just wanted to apologize, or something. I figured his—I dunno—his mother or brothers talked to him?" She threw a hand into the air, looking off into the distance as she spoke. "But that's not what he was there for."

"Okay, so what was he there for?" Blaise asked, a deep frown creating lines on his face.

"Yeah," Theo added.

"He wanted to talk, and . . ." She stared off to the side. Hard. Her jaw clicked. She was holding something back.

Draco was on the edge of murder. "And . . . ?"

"He kissed me."

No.

Draco turned around and started toward the Great Hall. The Weaselbee was dead. He was absolutely dead. He'd _kissed_ her? _Kissed Draco Malfoy's witch?_ Oh, fuck no. Absolutely not.

 _Absolutely_ not.

"Draco!" she shrieked. "I told you to leave him alone! It's okay. Everything is fine! I'm—"

Draco was in front of her in seconds, glaring and stone-faced. Blaise and Theo stepped toward him, Theo wearing a glare of his own. But Draco ignored them. Instead, he grabbed Hermione's chin, locked gazes with her, and let his magic flow through him.

" _Legilimens_."

The last thing he heard before he sunk into the forefront of her mind without permission was Theo's angry voice snarling his name.

* * *

_Draco saw Hermione._

_She was sitting on the couch, on the end he usually sat on. The Weasel sat on the other. His facial expression was as forlorn as Hermione's was pinched. Draco could tell just by looking at her—she was uncomfortable._

" _What do you want, Ronald? You've got some nerve coming here after what you said to me." She gave him a once-over._

" _I wanted to apologize, 'Mione," he said, his elbows on his thighs and his fingers intertwined between him. "You were so angry at dinner and your emotions were so out of control that I don't think you really listened to me."_

_Prat._

_Draco saw Hermione give him a revolted look. "My emotions were out of control because you were saying horrible things to me. You hurt my feelings, and that is why I was angry."_

_The Weaselbee pulled his hands back through his scraggly red hair, hanging his head between them. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I'm such a shite person, but bloody Hell!" He sat up and turned his upper body towards her. "Why can't you ever see anything from my side?"_

_Fucking prat._

" _I do see it from your side. And I don't think there's any excuse."_

_He glared at her. Draco saw it—the moment his mood shifted. It was like a blackness entered his eyes. Something deep, dark, and full of hatred._

_Hermione seemed to see it, too. She scooted as close to the arm of the couch as possible. She glanced over her shoulder. At the portrait. At her robes on the coat rack. Her wand._

" _You have to go and make everything about you again, don't you, Hermione? I'm here, giving you a chance to make something_ not _about you for once, and here you go again: making yourself the victim."_

" _How am I making myself the victim when I_ am _the victim?!" Hermione cried, holding a hand to her chest. "You're the one who's here, in_ my _space, trying to force me to give you a chance to explain why you treat me so horribly. And I don't need to repeat myself—I said what I needed to say to you at Christmas."_

" _Well,_ I _didn't get to say what I wanted to say."_

_Hermione jumped to her feet. "You don't get to say what you want to say!"_

_He rose. "I most certainly do when you're accusing me of doing horrible things like abusing you and acting like me leaving you at the pub was the worst mistake in the world."_

_Draco wanted to throttle him._

_It_ was _the worst mistake in the world._

" _Ron," Hermione said, and she clapped her hands to emphasize her next words. "This is the absolute last time we are ever going to speak. You need to leave."_

" _Oh, so you're just gonna throw away our friendship?"_

_Hermione sighed. "That's not relevant. I need you to leave right now. Draco is waiting for me, and I need to—"_

" _Malfoy." The Weasel's eyes narrowed to slits and he took a step toward her. "Why are you bringing him up?"_

" _I—"_

" _No, come on. Come on. Let's talk about it. Why did you even invite him?" The volume of his voice rose to a yell. He took another step toward her. "Why would you invite_ him _to_ our _Christmas dinner?"_

" _Because he's my—" She let out an exasperated scowl. "He's my friend. But you_ need _to_ leave."

_Draco couldn't help but feel pride swirling in his chest. Hermione, putting her foot down and standing up for herself. That was the witch he remembered. The witch he'd seen blooming like a thornless rose on the floor of the Drawing Room._

_His soulmate._

" _Is this why you're so mad I cheated on you? Because you were already cheating on me?" His eyes blazed. "With_ him _?"_

_Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but no words came forth. Draco knew she wasn't trying to make it sound like she was, but he was glad she was. Let him think she had. The Weaselbee needed to know that someone better than him—someone who could treat her better—saw her worth._

_Even if he hadn't seen it until later._

" _I didn't cheat on you. Just leave, Ron."_

 _The Weaselbee frowned and then his face contorted with rage. "But you're with him now, aren't you? That's why you invited him. Because you're going with him. Aren't you?_ Aren't you _?"_

_He came towards her, so suddenly that she scrambled backward towards the other side of the couch arm. Draco's anger deepened as high as it had risen._

" _Ron, you need to leave," Hermione repeated, her voice calm and facial expression showing how angry she was. But Draco knew that meant nothing. He remembered how calm she'd managed to stay in Paris. She'd handled that and she could handle the Weaselbee._

_That wasn't a good thing._

" _Not until you tell me—why won't you just—Hermione!"_

_He chased her around the couch. There was terror in her eyes when she came around the front side of the furniture again._

" _Ronald, please. You need to_ leave _!"_

" _Why are you acting like this? We've known each other for years! I'm just trying to talk to you!" The Weasel was as red as a tomato. He was livid._

_Hermione moved around the couch again, but as she did, Draco saw it. The unfocused look in her eyes that she always got when she moved too quickly. His heart sank._

_She grabbed onto the back of the couch to steady herself, and that was all the time the Weaselbee needed. He was behind her in seconds, grabbing her left arm and yanking her around to face him. She staggered, blinking away her confusion and dizziness, and then he slammed her against the nearby wall._

" _Why couldn't you just be normal and be my girlfriend?" the Weaselbee said, and he looked as desperate as he sounded. Hermione looked more terrified than Draco had ever seen her look. "Why'd you have to go and ruin_ everything _with your shite personality?! Why couldn't you just . . . Just . . ."_

_Fuck._

_His gaze had dropped to Hermione's lips._

" _Ron." Hermione's voice trembled with barely-contained fear. She placed a hand flat on his chest. "Ron, just leave. Okay? Please just leave."_

" _Hermione . . ."_

_It was in his voice._

_She blanched, beginning to push against his chest. "Ron, this isn't okay with me. Draco could come back any second, and this just—Ron!" He was leaning down towards her, much like the time Draco woke on the couch from his nap and saw the same thing taking place. She turned her face away, her eyes squeezing shut. Her voice was strained. "Ronald—I don't—_ mmph _!"_

_The Weaselbee had grabbed her chin in a vicelike grip, forced her head back around, and kissed her. She beat her fists against his chest, but his arms were huge. They caged her in like a sparrow. He was so much bigger than her that it was like raindrops against concrete._

_But she was smart._

_This time, she had her wand._

_Hermione wrenched her lips away from his. "_ Accio _wand!"_

_Draco managed to set his anger aside long enough to feel triumphant as he watched Hermione hex him until his lips were so big he almost toppled over. He stumbled back from her, eyes wild with his own fear and hands clutched to his continuously-swelling lips. Hermione glared at him, holding her wand pointed directly at him._

" _Ron. I told you to get the fuck out of our common room, and I meant it. Leave._ Now _."_

_Fuck, she was amazing._

_But the Weaselbee was so, so bloody dead._

* * *

Hermione shoved Draco backward with all of the strength she possessed.

Draco blinked, taken aback. Blaise was holding her back; Theo stood in front of Draco.

"What is _wrong with you?!"_ she cried. "You can't just use Legilimency on me without my permission! I told you it was fine!"

"Stop, Hermione!" Blaise said, grabbing her wrists and looking down into her eyes with sternness. "I'm not gonna let you hit him. Just calm down."

"Blaise," Draco said, tone reprimanding. Blaise let her go immediately, and she launched herself at Draco. He moved toward her, briefly taking note of the fact that Theo was standing a ways back and keeping his distance. He placed his hand on her shoulder to keep her back. "Hermione, just take a deep breath and chill the fuck out."

Hermione's eyes flashed and she lost complete control. Draco wasn't fast enough. She hauled back and slapped him across the face. The stinging bloomed across his cheek, a vicious reminder that she wasn't well and that she needed serious help.

He saw red, like a crimson wave of ire washing across his faculties. When he spoke, his voice was as quiet as death.

"I toldyou . . . _Never_ again."

"You also told me that my body was mine," she spat. "And then you go and do this."

"I'm trying to protect you!" he yelled, mindless of anyone who might see or hear.

"Stop trying to protect me!" she screamed back. Then, she spun on her foot and started marching back the way she'd come. Her voice wafted back behind her. "Just stop all of it."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the three boys as they stood there, watching her storm off around the corner. Blaise let out a low whistle under his breath. Draco glanced at Theo, wondering what he had to say about all this.

He was glaring at Draco.

"What?" Draco snapped, glaring right back.

"She doesn't need you yelling at her and threatening her," Theo said. "That's not how she deserves to be treated. Whatever happened with Weasley, it's not her fault."

The wave of crimson reared high.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" Draco roared, starting towards him. Once again, Blaise was forced to intervene to barricade his way.

"No," Theo said, his expression appearing as though he didn't care if Draco were angry. "You've treated her like rubbish for years now and I don't know what you've done to her, but that didn't look like the way a friend should be treated. You should have asked her permission."

Yes. He was right. Draco _should have_ asked Hermione's permission before he used Legilimency on her.

But that didn't negate their relationship. It didn't negate the things they'd faced, their bond, or the dreams they'd shared. The times they'd laughed together, and the times he'd held her while she cried. The intimate moments spent exploring each other's bodies at a pace she could handle—because he _did_ treat her well—and the times he'd stopped when she froze up this past week. The times he'd talked to her and shown her that she had more to live for than what the world wanted her to think she did.

He shouldn't have used Legilimency, but _no one_ was going to tell him he didn't care about Hermione.

"You don't . . . Know . . . _Anything_." Draco's fists clenched. "You don't know a damn thing, so shut your mouth before I lose my shite."

Theo came towards him, until the only thing separating them was a very bewildered Blaise.

"I know everything I need to know about you to know you're the worst thing that could ever happen to her," Theo hissed, looking up into Draco's eyes with a vehemence that he hadn't known he held for him. "She's been good and pure and something for her entire life. You just woke up one day this year and decided to stop being nothing."

Draco lunged, but Blaise placed his hands on his chest and shoved him so that he staggered back a ways.

He had never been this angry with his friend before. Even before this, with his suspicions, he hadn't been truly _angry_ with him. But the fact that Theo had absolutely _no_ idea about what Hermione and he had been through together was making his stomach curdle. He wanted to be sick.

To call him nothing?

It hurt because he felt like it was true.

Footsteps _clack_ ed towards them. It was Headmistress McGonagall, and she looked perturbed. Her glasses sat on the end of her nose and her robes fluttered out behind her as she bustled over.

" _Boys_!" she cried. "What on Earth are you doing out here, yelling in the corridor?!"

They said nothing. Blaise rubbed the back of his neck and Theo looked off towards the wall. Draco—who was so agitated and angry he could barely think clearly—just glared down at the Headmistress.

"It is time for lunch," she said, eyes blazing. "You need to either go inside and eat, or go to Hogsmeade to find victuals. If you're not going to eat, go find someplace to study. Someplace _quiet._ The corridor is _not_ the place to hoot and holler like First Years!"

"Yes, Headmistress," Theo and Blaise said.

Draco gritted his teeth.

"And you, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said, her tone clipped. "You are Head Boy. You know better than to act like a hooligan in my school. Thirty points from Slytherin. _Each_."

Blaise was the only one who groaned. Theo and Draco were too busy glaring at one another.

McGonagall turned in a swirl of black robes and fluttered off back into the Great Hall. When the boys were alone, Draco's mind cleared.

Hermione. They may have had a row, but all this was going to accomplish for her was another skipped meal. That, or she was going to go back to the common room and do something worse.

" _Fuck_!" Draco cursed, his head tipping back. "Look, I gotta go deal with this. Thank you for staying, Blaise."

"No, seriously—you go!" Blaise said, holding both hands up. "I don't know what you saw, but it's probably pretty bad to get that reaction. We'll see you around."

Draco and Theo exchanged hateful glances, and then he dashed off after Hermione, having already decided what was most important.

The next time he saw Ron Weasley, he was going to beat the fuck out of him on sight.

* * *

When Draco got back to the common room, Hermione was taking the tree down.

He closed the portrait behind him, watching as instead of using her wand, she ripped the ornaments off of the branches and dropped them into a box at her feet. He heard shattering noises, light smatterings of glass breaking, and he knew she didn't care that she was breaking them. The curtains on the window were drawn and the lights on the tree twinkled.

It was like she wanted to be reminded of the beauty she was taking apart, right until the very last minute.

Taking a deep breath, he sorted his thoughts. He was angry with her for slapping him. But he also knew why she had slapped him, and he knew why she was acting so erratic right now. She'd just been cornered in her home and forced to kiss her ex-wizard. Someone who had inadvertently caused the worst night of her life. Her mood was intimidating but justified.

He could handle this.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Christmas doesn't last forever," she said, her tone curt. Another ornament broke the moment it disappeared into the box.

He knew what she was doing.

"I meant everything I said to you that night," he said angrily. "Stop trying to push me away."

"I'm not pushing you away," she snapped. "Just leave me alone."

Contradiction.

"Hermione—"

"I said _leave me alone_!" she shrieked. "You say one thing, then do another. You set the rules and say you're not trying to control me, and then you control me to get me to stop. My body is mine, as long as it's yours, right?"

The argument with Theo had caused the flames of his ire to linger, and now her words fanned them back into an inferno.

"Don't fucking say that to me or about me _ever_ again," he snarled, coming to stand next to the couch. "You know I'm not like that. I've never, ever made you do anything you didn't want to do with your body. Rules aside, you can still break them. I can beg on my hands and knees and you can still do whatever you want."

"Oh, okay," she said, her tone sarcastic as she faced the tree and continued to tear the ornaments off. She tossed several gold and silver orbs over her shoulder into the box. "So, when it comes to fucking me, you're gonna be a gentleman. My body is mine when it comes to your cock. But when it comes to what's locked inside my mind, to what I eat or don't eat, and to whether or not I throw it up, that's your decision."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Excellent." She faced him, her gaze cutting across their shared rage to lock with his. An ornament fell from her hand into the box, where it shattered loudly. "Then you'll be happy to know that in the ten minutes between the time I got back here and the time you finally decided to show up, I ate two _huge_ chocolate bars and threw them up in the loo. My decision, right?"

Draco felt her words lancing through him, stabbing to his core with a hooked, barbed edge and tearing him on the way out. The mental image of her stuffing them down her mouth, frantically scrambling to devour them. Of her falling to her knees before the loo, covered in sick and trembling as she retched.

Did she not understand it was the nightmare he never wanted to come true again? Did she not understand that he feared he would walk in on her, dead on the floor? Did she not understand how deeply he cared for her?

"What the fuck?" he said, his fear warring with his anger. "Isn't the point of all this for you to get better?"

She shot him an incredulous look. "Are you mental? I never said I wanted to get better."

That's right. He'd forgotten.

 _He_ wanted her to get better. The point of all "this" was to make _his_ desires come true.

"So, what, you're just gonna purge and purge and purge until you die?"

" _You_ chose to make the rules." Another broken ornament. " _You_ chose to get involved. I didn't ask for you to—"

"To what?" Draco moved closer, until he was in the center of the common room. "To care?"

"No. You— _Christ._ " She whirled in a flurry of curls, looking momentarily taken aback to see him so close. She tilted her head up to maintain eye contact. "I didn't ask for you to start trying to control me. It's my body. If I want to starve it until there's nothing left then I bloody well will!"

"If I wanted to control you, Hermione," he said in a sinister tone, taking another step closer, "then I would."

"You would try and fail." She turned around again, as though she didn't care that he was one foot away from her. Yet another ornament shattered beneath them. "I'll do whatever I want. I bet that makes you so angry, you can't even see straight. Because you're still Draco Malfoy, the wizard who can have whatever he wants at the drop of a sickle. Any control you think you have over me is control I've _allowed_ you to have. Any piece of me you've received is a piece I've _given_ you." Shattered ornament. "So, if you _are_ angry about it, then you can stay angry."

A white-hot lightning bolt of fury rocked his body to the core and he tangled his hands in his hair. This woman. She was pushing him to the edge. To the _limit._

"You are _the_ most difficult person to be with, do you know that?" he shouted. "You like to pretend you'll do whatever you want, but you don't even _know_ what you want! And the reason why you let me think I have any bit of fucking control over you is because it lets you pretend you _have_ control over something in your life. Because that's what it's all about, yeah?" He wrapped his hand around her bicep and forced her to turn and face him. He ignored her glare. "Isn't it?"

She remained silent.

"So, yeah. Yeah—I'm right brassed off that I care. I'm fucking livid because I care too much. Sometimes, it gets so exhausting caring about you. I wish I could sit in my dorm room and not care because then I wouldn't have to worry about you all the time. I wouldn't have to worry about who's bothering you and who's hurting you and whether or not you've eaten. Whether you've kept it down. At least then if I didn't care, I wouldn't have to feel guilty about the fact that I want to be the last person you ever have to learn to trust."

"So stop," she hissed.

His thoughts careened off-kilter, set back by the confusion her words caused. "What?"

She took the final step toward him, kicking the box full of broken Christmas ornaments aside with her foot. She looked like she was shrouded in shadows with the lights on the tree being the only source of illumination in the common room. His heart rate sped up when her hand wrapped around his tie and yanked until he bent to her eye level. Her eyes blazed like a forest fire.

"Stop worrying about me. Stop exhausting yourself." She spat the words like a snake's venom and she very slowly, very pointedly shoved his robes off of his body. "Stop feeling guilty. Stop feeling anything at all."

He swore he could hear water rushing past his ears. He swore he couldn't hear anything at all.

Draco's anger and desire churned into a poisonous concoction, bubbling up into his chest, throat, and mouth, and forcing him forward. He tilted his head and slammed his lips against hers, shoving his tongue into her pliant mouth and kissing her with the insatiable hunger of an incubus. And the lust he felt for her was demonic, the way it had crept its way throughout his entire psyche and eclipsed his life with her. He would drown in her if she held him down beneath the surface of the ocean of everything she was.

She existed, and that was enough for him.

Hermione kissed him back, her fingers frantically reaching past his tie to unbutton his vest. She kissed him like she wanted to be devoured. Like she wanted him to take and take and take until there was nothing left for her to hate of herself. Until all that she was belonged to him.

Until she was his.

Draco loosened his tie and ripped it off over his head. The vest came apart, and he shoved it down his arms as she pulled her own robes off. His mind was blank—as white as nothing—as he removed his white button-up.

As he expected, her gaze skated over his tattoos, the look within them intensifying as he leaned in to kiss her again. She strengthened the push of her mouth to his, her own shirt coming unbuttoned. She stood before him in nothing but her skirt, socks, and brassiere, and even though he wanted to stand back to look, his body wouldn't let him.

His blood raced through his veins, singing for her. Begging him to keep going as long as he could until she told him to stop. To drink as much of her in as he could.

The moment he dropped his shirt to the floor, her hands were flat against his chest and she was shoving.

Draco stumbled backward, collapsing onto the center of the couch. The expression on her face bordered on angry as she clambered on top of him and engaged him in a wild, breath-stealing kiss. A kiss that had her fingers running rampant through his hair, all over his head. Chills ran down his spine from every scrape of her fingernails across his scalp.

Hermione ground her hips against him to the cadence of their dancing tongues. Draco's fingers traced along her ribs and down to her lower back. They hesitated, twitching with the desire to touch her the way he wanted to. The white in his mind was starting to bleed with color, anxious tones of bright red that told him they needed to slow down. That she wasn't ready for the person he really was.

But then she reached behind her, grabbed his right hand, and very deliberately placed it on her bottom.

She didn't stop there.

Hermione moved his hand lower and lower, pulling it to disappear beneath the hem of her pleated uniform skirt and up to the back of her knickers. Their lips brushed and his breath stuttered when she undulated her hips in a circle over his.

"Off," she whispered, and then she kissed him again. The same desperation. The same level of need.

Draco hooked his thumb beneath the elastic as his other hand pulled her skirt up out of the way. He pulled her knickers down and somehow, without ever breaking the rhythm of their kiss, she managed to get them off. His pulse pounded.

She'd never had her knickers off like this before.

This was a milestone. It felt like a milestone. The red was filling his mind, warning him it was time to slow down. To handle his anger. To rationalize some things.

But then she unbuckled his belt.

The clinking was loud—so loud in the common room that he couldn't focus on anything else. His blood roared down to his loins, hardening him to the point of pain. She looked down between them and he lifted his hips with her upon him so she could push his trousers and pants down below the swell of his rear.

Okay, now. Now was the time to slow it down. Now was the time to—to—

Hermione leaned forward and started to kiss the side of his neck, right in the spot that made his entire body turn to liquid. She used her tongue and her teeth, pulling moans out of him. He gripped her backside, pulling, not seeming to register that her arousal slicked the underside of his length.

"Do you want me?" Her voice was sweet in his ear.

"Yeah," he groaned, voice rough. "Gods yeah."

She moved forward. The head of him notched at her entrance. He held his breath.

They needed to slow the fuck down. This was bad. This was really bad.

He felt like his faculties were eradicated. He wanted to slam his hips upward and sink into her to the hilt.

Why was she doing this?

She started to sink down, only a bit. Not enough for him to be inside, but enough to make the wrong move if she went too fast. He felt her hands anchoring around the back of his neck, felt her lips closing around his ear. His eyelids fluttered from the pleasurable sensation of it.

" _And I can't imagine a forever with you."_

Could she imagine it now?

Suddenly, her lips molded to his again, distracting him.

He cupped her head, fingers sunken in her kinky curls as he held her in place and snogged her with erratic strokes of his tongue. His breathy _slower, love. Be careful_ bordered on a whine. His stomach coiled tight—as tight as she felt as he split her apart. It was only a fraction—only the tip—but the danger of it brought him to life.

Circe, she smelled of gardenias.

_Crack._

His cheek stung, just like it had earlier. His eyelids snapped open, his old anger flaring anew.

She had slapped him.

"Call me a whore."

Draco jolted. She was starting to sink downward. They needed to stop this. They needed to, but—

"I said _call_ me a _whore,_ Malfoy."

"Whore," he said automatically, unable to tear his eyes off of his cock. One of her hands held her skirt up.

She slapped him again, and then her fingernails dug into the back of his shoulder. "Call me a Mudblood cunt."

"Wh—" He started to protest but she inched down further. Fuck. _Fuck_. He was technically inside of her. And she was so fucking tight. The weight of his breathing increased.

" _Malfoy_."

A flare of his anger. His indignation. His past.

It fueled him.

"You _fucking_ Mudblood cunt. You know what the fuck you're doing. You know what you're doing to me. We can't _do_ this like this."

Another inch disappeared.

It was torture. Partially because he wanted to be all the way in. Partially because he knew they needed to stop.

Her head tipped back for a moment, her curls falling away from her shoulders as she reached down to touch herself. The sight was so arousing that his hips bucked upward.

Shite.

Another inch.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

"Hermione, I'm gonna fuck you," he said, shaking his head over and over. "Do you understand me? If you don't stop now, we are _going_ to fuck on this couch."

"No, you're not and we're not," she said, breathless. "It's just the tip. It's okay."

He wanted to laugh. "No, it is absolutely not just the tip."

"Shut up, or I'll go further."

He reached up to touch her chest, fondling one of her breasts and pulling at the peak over the thin fabric of her brassiere. Her hips twitched forward, and he gritted his teeth.

"Her—"

"No. Call me Granger." Her eyes were closed, her fingers swirling in circles over her clit.

No.

 _No_.

They couldn't do this. Not like this. She hated herself. She hated herself, and that was why she wanted him to say and do this stuff. That was why she wanted him to treat her like this.

He wasn't going to degrade her like that.

But he was very, _very_ angry and very, _very_ turned on.

"Malfoy, did you—"

"Shut up, Granger," he snarled, his hand shooting up to close so tight around her throat that it decapitated her sentence with a tattooed necklace. A squeak escaped her and for a second, she looked scared. "I said we're not doing this like this."

"O-Okay . . ."

"What do you want?" he asked in a rough, gravelly voice, his gaze dropping to her lips and back up again. "You wanna come? Make yourself come then. Come on. Come on, let's go."

The look in her eyes was dark and smoldering as she leaned forward with her knees on the couch. It put her breasts near his face and forced her throat tighter into his palm. The new position nearly caused him to faint from trying to hold himself back. Sweat was beginning to prickle on the back of his neck.

Using her knees, she began infinitesimal movements, rising and falling on the top of his cock as though she were made for it. The slickness of her flesh and the intensity of the nerve endings in his length awarded him with not only the sensations necessary to bring him closer to the precipice, but with the sounds of her high-pitched, breathy moans. Her hair seemed to have gotten frizzier, and he buried his face in it for a second while he fought against his own urges to take control.

He didn't like saying cruel things to her, but there was a tiny piece down in the depths of his spirit that remembered what it felt like to hate her. A tiny piece of him that was so tired of taking care of her when he wished she would take care of herself that wanted to degrade her.

Draco hated that part of himself.

She spoke, her voice barely managing to make itself audible around how hard he was squeezing the sides of her throat.

"Okay say it again, but call me—"

"Shut up, you stupid fucking Mudblood cunt," he snarled. His other hand twisted her hair around the back of his palm and pinned her between it and his other one. Her breath came in short, harsh pants near his ear. "And do what the fuck I just told you to do."

She placed one hand on the back of the couch behind his head, her other moving beneath her skirt. She let out a moan, a needy one, and began to move faster. He felt himself sliding in and out of her body—only a mere few inches of his length—but it was enough.

His toes curled in his shoes and he began to tremble. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to start thrusting.

No.

He couldn't. This was dangerous. They were balancing on the edge of a cliff from which there was no return. He wasn't consummating a possible star bond in the common room with half of their clothes on.

But he was lost to her, to this.

"Fuck, you're so pathetic," he said. "You're the one who said you didn't want this. You're the one who said you didn't want the bond. But here you are, whining like a little bitch. You're desperate for me aren't you?"

"I'm s-so desperate," she moaned. Whimpered. Gasped.

"Tell me how bad you want me, Granger," he growled, his eyes squeezing shut from the effort of staying still as she moved. "Tell me what you fucking want."

"I w-want . . . You to fuck me," she whined.

"Don't get all shy on me now. What was that?"

"I want y-you to f-fuck me, Malfoy."

"Fuck you how?" He pushed her back a bit, enough for him to see as he pulled her skirt up a little higher.

He nearly flipped her onto her back.

His gaze consumed the sight of her bare flesh, the thatch of soft curls between her legs, her fingers glistening and wet against her pearl. Watched the head disappearing in and out of her body as she continued the short rolls of her hips. It was intense. Too intense. He could feel a flush rising up his chest.

"Like a whore," she sobbed, and her fingers swirled faster.

"Like you're mine." He squeezed her throat until her breath rattled. "Like you're all fucking mine."

Her moans were getting louder. More pleading. More strangled. Her hand moved faster, in soft, gentle circles that had her muscles twitching. Her hips rolled, causing her core to slide up and down over the head of his cock and just below. He could barely breathe.

"I'm gonna come," he groaned. "I need you to come first. Please— _fuck_ —I need you to."

Her eyelids fluttered. Her hips ground down, and he slid further inside.

Draco felt his blood heating to an inferno in his loins. His head fell against the back of the couch. He whimpered, feeling the chains he had wrapped around his control starting to fall away. To unravel. To free him.

"I'm so—close—I—" Her voice was so, so fucking sweet when he was strangling her.

"Please, Granger. That's it, that's it—come on my cock." He bit his lower lip to cover his moan when she shivered and convulsed astride him. " _Good_ girl. That's _it._ Not too far inside."

She let out another strangled cry. A wail. And then she came, her body shuddering as her eyelids fluttered shut. He loosened his hold on her throat and began to stroke his hands up and down her sides, over her rear. He hissed between his teeth as he felt her body contracting around him, tempting him to sink in all the way.

Hermione let out a sigh and stopped moving. Small convulsions made their way through her body in turn, like ripples across the surface of the sea, and she looked into his eyes for a moment. Her brow furrowed and she placed her hands on his shoulders. Slowly, she lowered her lips to kiss him.

But Draco didn't stop. He dug his fingers into the backs of the tops of her thighs, spread her apart, and started to drive his hips upward to pick up where she'd left off. She whimpered, tearing her lips away from his to cry out as he moved.

"Draco, please." She sounded like she was seconds away from crying. "I'm too—it's sensitive."

"Just a little longer for me, sweet girl," he moaned. "I'm almost there. I'm so fucking close."

He kept moving, faster and faster, shallow thrusts that felt like torture for him. His stomach clenched, just like his heart when he looked up and saw her eyes filling with tears. His pace tripped.

"Keep going," she whispered, shaking her head. "Don't stop."

He obliged, watching as her tears began to slip silently down her cheeks. Her mouth fell open. She was limp in his arms, held spread open by his hands as he drove himself in and out, in and out. Gods, he just wanted to be all the way inside. It was the contrast of wanting to be inside and feeling himself getting closer to release that made him whine in his chest.

And as he lifted his head to kiss one of the tears, to taste it on his lower lip, he realized.

He didn't care how much work and effort it took to take care of her. He would do whatever it took to make her happy. He would do anything to see her get better.

"Tell me who you belong to," he whispered, his lips ghosting over her own. He searched her eyes. He was right there. Right on the edge.

Another tear fell.

"You."

He came.

Draco went soaring through the stars, passing galaxies and comets on his way to the center of the universe. He felt the black hole inside of his chest tearing him apart as his orgasm slammed through him, barely managing to lift her up in time to keep his release from getting inside of her. It soaked her skirt and he shuddered as the waves of stardust crashed over him.

He heard her whispering a spell to clean them up, and then she collapsed atop him. He wrapped his arms around her body, allowing his hands to trace up and down her back in soothing motions. Over bones he didn't want to feel and parts of her skin that felt worn and stretched.

His heart wrenched.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "How are you feeling after that?"

She looked away for a second, and then smiled at him. "I'm fine. It felt good and it was what I asked for."

It didn't matter. The aversion of her gaze was answer enough. This encounter was as much of a self-flagellation as her purging. And he did feel used. The consent was dubious. But mostly he just felt sad.

He wished she didn't hate herself so much.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed, pressing kisses to the side of her face and along her jaw. "I'm sorry I didn't come back to the common room while he was here. I'm sorry I was too late."

_Again._

She didn't say anything. She merely wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed her face beneath his ear. He listened to her breathe while he absentmindedly massaged her thighs and back. He gazed at the tree, half-empty and still glowing from the lights.

It really was true. Christmas didn't—and couldn't—last forever. Hermione was sick. She wasn't well and she needed him. The rules were all well and good, but not if she wasn't ready to follow them. He needed to be more involved.

He didn't want what happened to his mother to happen to her.

Draco couldn't understand why Hermione wanted him to degrade her that way. He couldn't understand why he'd _wanted_ to do it. It terrified him.

What if they were just as bad of a match as she and the Weaselbee?

What if Theo was right?

After they laid there for a little while longer, boneless and relaxed, Draco rubbed her upper arms.

"We've got class. Lunch is _way_ over."

Hermione sighed, but it sounded sad. Forlorn. Too heavy for her to carry.

"I don't want to. I'm too sleepy."

"Okay," he said, his voice soft. "Then we'll just skive off the rest of the day. You wanna smoke?"

". . . Yeah. Okay."

Draco reached between them and zippered his trousers again. After he buckled his belt, he gathered her into his arms. He stood up with a gentle grunt of exertion, smiling at the quiet laugh she let out. He carried her down the hall with his hands hooked under her thighs, leaving behind the clothing they'd shed. Into his dorm room they went.

"Ah, our hovel," she said, sounding exhausted.

"If you think I'd ever be caught dead in a hovel, you've lost your mind."

He set her down on the bed and went to his bedside table to pull the baggie out. He then sat down on the edge of the bed and started packing the paper.

Draco felt strange.

They'd essentially just had sex, hadn't they? They'd flown too close to the sun and melted their wings. They'd crashed into the sea and drowned. He'd let his emotions get the best of him—he'd let her disorder control the moment, and not their own hearts. It was up to him to protect her from himself and, if she couldn't protect herself from her own self-destruction, then he needed to do that, too.

Still, he worried.

Could the bonding magic tell the difference? Was it enough to consummate?

Had they just consummated the last and final level of the bond?

His hand shook as he rolled the joint. He felt nervous. Not because he didn't want to be bonded, but because she might regret it.

He didn't want to lose her.

She crawled to sit beside him, one knee pulled up to her chest and the other foot on the floor. She still wore naught but her brassiere and skirt. Her hair was a tangled mass of curls.

He ran his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper to seal the joint, looking down into her eyes as he did so. When it was sealed, he spoke.

"You know I don't think any of those things about you, right?"

"Which things?" she asked.

"I don't think you're a whore, and I certainly don't think you're a . . . Well, you know."

"I know," she said, her voice wistful. "But I needed to hear them."

He frowned. "You needed to? Or you wanted to?"

She was quiet for a long moment—almost an entire minute. Finally, she lowered her gaze to the carpeted floor.

"I don't know."

They were gonna unpack that later.

Draco nodded. "Did you make the appointment with Trelawney?"

"Yes. She said this Saturday around noon."

So they needed to be careful until they found out whether or not they were even bonded. It was Monday now.

He hoped they hadn't already made a mistake.

Draco smoked and shared it with her, stealing a few tired kisses as he did. He thought it was cute when she kissed him after the smoke passed into her mouth. Especially when she gave him that bleary-eyed smile.

When they were done, the sleepiness hit him full force.

"Fuck. You want your bonnet?" he asked around a yawn, reaching for where she'd dropped it on the floor that morning.

"Hm?" She sounded half-asleep even though she was still sitting up. Her back slouched. "Can you just put it on me?"

He tried his best to put his fingers through her curls and detangle them but the futility was apparent by the look on her face. Instead, he pulled the satin bonnet on over her head to gather them up and protect them while she slept. Her eyes were closed, but her lips curled up the moment his fingers trailed down to cup her cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispered after he kissed her.

"Anything you need, sweet girl," he whispered back.

Then, they laid down in a tangle of limbs and drifted off to see each other in dreams.

He wondered if she was scared of him in more ways than one.


	31. Chapter 31

**Highly triggering ED talk in this chapter. It's not a play-by-play how-to, but it's necessary. In order to face recovery and your disorder, you have to shed discomfort and face your triggers. Draco needed to hear all of this to understand, and so do all of you. There's a serious problem with people who do not understand EDs believing horrific misconceptions about it, and with this story, I fully plan to help shed light on how wrong a lot of those misconceptions are.**

**This story—as well as all of my work—is not supposed to do the healing for you—it's supposed to help you start your journey towards it.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Hermione was in the loo again.

Draco had returned from his last class of the day on Tuesday, hoping to change into casual clothing. He had planned on asking her to dinner at the Three Broomsticks, but when he saw the door shut and familiar golden light spilling out from beneath it, his heart sank.

It was going to be a while.

He went into his room and lit up, finding that he was too agitated to deal with this sober. He changed into a green shirt and denims, figuring that even if he was irritated, he still needed to be good to her. After he was dressed, he padded into the kitchen to put on some tea.

This wasn't surprising. Their conversation on Monday had made it very clear that she had no intention of getting better. He just didn't know how to feel about it or how to fix it.

"What are you making?" Her voice sounded hoarse.

He didn't look at her as he waved his wand and let the kettle pour itself into a mug for her. After setting the wand on the counter, he sifted through the tea bags and pulled out a chamomile one.

"Tea."

"What for?" She crept closer.

"For your throat."

"Oh."

She watched him stirring sugar into the hot drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw she had changed at some point, too. It was clear she'd skived off her last class, which was highly unlike her. She wore one of his black hooded jumpers and nothing else, her bare legs visible. The hood was up.

"Why?" she asked, as though she couldn't take the silence.

"Did you throw up?" he asked, finally glancing down at her. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot. Her normally brown skin looked pale and splotchy. Her curls were as big as ever, though.

"Are you going to be angry? It's not like I broke any of the rules . . ."

"Did you throw up, Hermione?"

". . . Yeah."

His heart once again settled into his stomach. He didn't think he'd ever get used to hearing it. It made him so fucking sad, even when it made him angry.

"How many times?"

She looked a bit surprised. "What makes you think I'd do it more than once at a time?"

He looked at her again, this time _really_ looking. Aside from her appearance, he could tell that she wasn't _well_. Her hands shook. Her eyes didn't seem all the way focused. She shifted her weight from one knee to the other, like her joints hurt too bad to be used at the same time. He wondered if her chest felt cold. One of the books had said that happened sometimes with electrolyte imbalance.

"How many?" he repeated.

"Four."

He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled a banana out. He'd always thought it was strange that she kept the fruit in there, but he wasn't going to care about that right now. Walking back to the counter, he set it down beside her.

"Eat this. If you're still feeling shaky, eat another one." He held her gaze. "You can eat fruit. It's _okay_."

He watched her as she peeled and consumed the banana. When she was done, she narrowed her eyes, but it didn't seem malicious.

"How do you know so much about this?" she asked. "How do you know what to do?"

He gritted his teeth, not understanding why he didn't want her to know. But he was gonna tell her anyway.

"I did my reading," he said.

They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment. Draco didn't want to row with her. He really didn't, but he knew they needed to talk about what happened sooner or later. He just didn't know how to bring it up with her without her thinking she was a horrible person.

He was afraid of becoming who he used to be.

After another sip of her tea, she averted her eyes.

"I'm really sorry, but I had some of your . . . Um, your . . . Weed."

Draco raised one eyebrow. "You smoked my weed?"

She looked sheepish and nodded.

"I thought you didn't want to. How'd you know how to roll it?"

"I figured it out," she said, biting her lower lip. "I _am_ me, you know."

His lips twitched up at that. With a sigh, he lifted the cup, turned to face her, and leaned his hip against the counter. He handed her the cup and their fingers brushed. Draco felt a jolt.

"You _are_ you," he murmured. "That's for sure."

"Thank you," she said, and then she took a sip.

"So, why'd you smoke it?"

"I was anxious and the last time we did it, it really calmed me down. And it wasn't as hard as I thought. It burned the first time, but then it got easier."

"Why were you anxious?"

She held the cup between both hands, her toes turned in towards each other a bit as she stared at the floor in her guilt. The sleeves were too long for her.

"Because I knew you'd be angry with me."

Draco sighed again. It was when she said things like that, that he couldn't ignore the fact that she clearly didn't want to be sick. The real her was somewhere inside of her—somewhere that cared about his feelings.

He wondered if she felt trapped.

"I'm not angry with you," he said softly. "I'm just disappointed."

"Okay," she said sadly. "How can I fix it?"

_Get better._

"I don't think it's something you can fix," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

The air itself felt sad. Changed. Wrong.

Without another word to him, she drank the last of her tea and left the kitchenette. She went into her dorm room, shutting the door behind her. It was the first time he'd seen her go into it since the week after Christmas, as she'd been in his room anytime they were at the dorm.

He knew she had snacks in there.

Draco went into his bedroom and laid on his bed. He lifted one knee and intertwined his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Ten minutes after she'd gone into her dorm, she came out and went into the loo.

He almost cried.

When she was done, Hermione came into his dorm room without knocking. She laid down next to him in the bed and pulled her knees up to her body, pillowing her head on his chest as she curled up.

He wanted to be angry. He really did.

But his heart ached.

Draco turned to face her, slipping one arm beneath her to gather her close. He could feel her trembling, and he knew it wasn't from fear. He knew exactly what it was from, and he was terrified. He used the fingers of his other hand to tuck her hair behind her ear.

She lifted her gaze to him. There were no tears, but he saw his own despair mirrored back in her eyes.

There was a new ache in his heart now. One that frightened him in its depth and viscousness. An ache that he knew it was too soon for yet feared returning to a time where he didn't feel it. An ache that should have felt warm and not as cold as snow beneath sunlight.

All this effort, taking care of her, watching over her, protecting her. All this effort, to make sure he could see her chest rise and fall at night when he woke in the dark and feared it may be still. All this effort, just to keep her alive. He looked at her and realized what he'd been denying all along.

He knew what he was fighting for.

"Please," he whispered, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against hers. His thumb caressed her cheek as though she were made of porcelain. "Please stop hurting yourself."

The pad of his thumb passed through a tear track that had appeared.

"I'm trying," she said.

He wanted to tell her to try harder. He wanted to tell her like he wished he could have told his mother.

"You know you don't have to do everything alone anymore, don't you?" His voice quivered. Why did it feel like he was dangling off of a precipice?

"Let me deal with this. I can fight my own battles. I'm not weak."

He opened his eyes, his hand trailing to curve around the side of her neck and jaw. "But what if I want to protect you?"

"I don't need protection." A whispered breath.

"Yes," he said, leaning closer. "You do."

Draco kissed her because he wanted to. Needed to as much as he needed to breathe the air that sustained them. He knew he would never tire of it—could never tire of her. And that was why he was so terrified.

Because even if he could barely stand to watch her wither, he would water her roots until she could no longer absorb him.

He rolled on top of her.

"I don't want you to fight your own battles," he murmured against her skin as he brushed his mouth along her jawline and down to her pulse. He loved the feeling of it pounding against his tongue. He heard her expel a short, harsh breath. "I want to fight them for you. I'm _going_ to fight them for you."

Her body was limp beneath him, just the mere touch of his lips enough to render her a crumbling mess. As he continued to trace designs with the tip of his tongue upon her neck, her breaths burst out of her chest as though he were uprooting them from the soil of her lungs. He felt her hands coming to rest first on his shoulders, then moving to the sides of his head. Her fingernails tickled through his hair.

"Draco," she said, and her voice was barely stronger than a breeze. "I don't want you to fight for me."

His kisses moved down to her shoulder, where he tugged aside the collar of the hooded jumper. The hood was still up, but because she was lying on her back, it didn't come off. He planted kisses like seeds along the sharp line of her collarbone, and he watered them with his tongue so they would grow into desire.

"Then what do you want me to do?" he breathed, suckling her flesh and slipping his hand beneath the jumper. Her legs, which bracketed his hips, widened.

"Whatever you want," she moaned when his fingers sought beneath her knickers.

"And if I wanted to taste you?"

She bit her lip to stifle a cry as his fingers slipped inside of her body and twisted. Curled like they were calling her closer. Pressed against the spot behind her pelvis and pulled her through the cosmos. He felt her hips grinding up from below, her body desperate as he trapped her between his own and the mattress.

Her eyes rolled and her mouth fell open.

"Y-Yes," she managed to choke out.

Draco felt an intense emotion washing over him as she sighed. There was something poignant in the way she always told him yes, in the way she trusted him so completely now that one suggestion was all she needed. To go from the girl who tried to stay strong in Paris to the girl who let herself be raw was almost too much to bear. It was the bond yet it wasn't. It was fucking beautiful. _She_ was fucking beautiful.

Why had she wanted him to degrade her when it was so much nicer filling her with praise?

He slipped down her body, taking her knickers with him. The heady scent of her arousal sent blood rushing down to his loins as his hands stroked up the insides of her thighs. He spread her, pulled her open for him, prepared to show her how much he cherished what he was fighting for. This was the first time they'd done this, but after yesterday, what did it matter?

She was almost his.

She might already be.

By the time he was searching the depths of her core, she was already a trembling, convulsing heap on the bed. Her fingers curled into the coverlet beneath her and she rolled her hips with slow back and forth movements, riding his tongue in her journey up to the skies. Her whines were strangled, choked—like vines had wrapped around her throat to try to squeeze them into silence.

"Tell me what you feel," he whispered after pulling back for a moment. He kissed around the area that brought her the most pleasure, causing her to shiver. "When I do this."

The tip of his tongue caressed her clit.

Her back arched up off of his bed. She gasped as though she'd just come up from the depths of the sea. Her hips jerked so violently that his hands were forced to press her down and hold her in place. She squirmed when he repeated the movement, tasting her.

"Good!" she cried. "Please—it's good. Please—let me—let me m-move."

He ignored her, continuing his torturous assault. Her hand slapped against the bed.

"Draco." Another whine. "Please let me."

"What will you do for me?" He laved with the flat of his tongue and she inhaled so loud through her mouth that it sounded like her breath had been stolen away.

"I'll do a-anything. _Please_."

He kissed her in the same spot and she moaned. "Will you come on my tongue?

"Yeah," she said. "I will, I will! Just— _please_."

"Say it." His lips closed over it, suckling and drawing a whimpering moan out of her. "Be sweet and say it. You know how to do that, don't you?"

She was silent for as long as she could bear before she let out a sob.

"I'll c-come on your t-tongue for you, Draco. I will—I s-swear. Just— _oh_ —please, please. Just—"

He rewarded her. Without warning, he latched his mouth to the apex of her core and rubbed her clit with his tongue until she slapped a hand over her mouth and screamed into her palm. The thigh he held pinned flexed beneath his hand; her other thigh rose, pressing hard against the side of his head. She convulsed, her chest arching higher. He felt her hips twitching.

She was gonna come.

Draco let go of her thigh and reached beneath his mouth. He found her entrance and sunk two fingers inside of her.

And then he fucked her with them. Hard and fast. Without giving her a chance to function, let alone moan. All she could do was gasp and sob.

Her hands flew to cover her face, muffling her telltale wails—the wails she made when he hit the spot inside of her that she liked best. After multiple times touching her this past week, Draco knew just how to make her sing to the stars.

And sing to the stars she did.

She came on his tongue seconds later, her entire body going rigid for a suspended moment before the trembling set in. He tasted her even through it, groaning at the feeling of her muscles contracting around his fingers, clamping down on him tight and hot.

He crawled back up her body and kissed her. Her hands were curled into tight fists by her head, like she couldn't manage to keep them from closing. Draco wrapped his hands around her wrists to keep them there, his kiss allowing her to taste herself in a way that made her moan.

He pulled back, let go of her, and pressed his forehead against hers as she caught her breath.

"Hermione, I don't care if you want me to fight for you or not," he said. "I'm going to."

She placed a trembling hand against his cheek and when he opened his eyes this time, he caught a glimpse of the reason why things were so distant between them today.

Regret. Fear. Worry.

She thought yesterday was a mistake, too.

"Do you want me to—"

He cut her off with a kiss. "No. I just want to lay with you."

She curled up against his side again, and her head fit neatly against the front of his shoulder. He felt her eyelashes brushing his neck with every blink.

The silence felt too loud.

"Why four times?"

She cleared her throat. "What?"

"Why the need to purge four times?" He frowned up at the ceiling. "Why not just eat it all and do it once?"

She was quiet for a second before saying, "Well, because it hurts. I have to split my sessions into categories. If I'm going to eat crisps, cookies, and—I dunno, say . . . Chicken? Then I have to eat each thing in full, and then go to the loo. If I do it all at once, then it takes me too long."

"And do you plan what you're gonna binge on?" He'd done his reading—he couldn't mince words anymore.

"Sort-of. If I eat during meals in the Great Hall, I'll rush back here or to the public loo. Sometimes, I crave certain things for hours while I'm in class, but usually I know what I'm gonna like, _want_ for the next week or so. I go to Hogsmeade or ask Harry to send me Muggle snacks I like. Then, I put them in a chest in my room and pull them out when I crave. There's times where I eat the whole thing or an entire package, but most times I just eat until I'm bored of the taste, get rid of it, and then move on to the next thing."

So Draco wasn't the only one with a wooden chest full of painful secrets.

"It's actually fairly easy for me when I do it in small increments this way. Takes me maybe five minutes to get it all up." She held up her right hand where he could see it. He took it and inspected it. There were darker umber spots on the knuckles of her first three fingers. "It's easier and faster if I do it this way. I've heard of other girls using potions or Puking Pastilles to get it up, but I don't like the feeling of nausea."

 _Other girls?_ He supposed that made sense. Draco had never heard of an eating disorder before reading the books Rose gave him. Maybe the other girls didn't realize they had a serious underlying issue.

Maybe they didn't realize how ill Hermione really was.

"Don't you need to be nauseous for it to work?" He closed his fingers around her hand and held it to his chest. This was all difficult for him to hear, but in a strange way, better understanding calmed him.

"No. It's like breathing or using the toilet for me. Just second nature by now. I mean, it's been years of me doing this, Draco. I don't even cry anymore. Unless something stops me before I can get rid of it. I eat whatever I'm craving and then I go use the loo. Then I move onto the next thing. If you're here, I just take it all into the loo with me and eat on the floor."

Gods, she sounded so nonchalant.

"So . . . Then why are you in the loo for so long every time you do it?"

"It's embarrassing."

"This entire thing is embarrassing. Tell me anyway."

"Because I'm looking at my body in the mirror. Looking for changes."

He felt the anxiety clawing at him. If it hurt, then why did she do it? If it hurt, then wasn't that a bad sign?

If it hurt, then was he going to lose her?

"Why does it hurt?" he asked, his hand rubbing her upper arm in an absentminded manner.

"I don't know why," she replied. "It just does. It's like a . . . Like a sharp pain that I get in my diaphragm whenever I eat too much and purge it. It usually hurts so bad that I have to stop and wait for it to pass."

He stiffened, panic blooming in his chest. "And then you purge _anyway_?"

"Well, _yeah_ ," she said. "It's not like I can just let it stay in me."

 _Of course you can!_ He wanted to scream. _It's just fucking food! It's_ supposed _to stay in there!_

But he knew better. It wouldn't help—it would only push her further into the disorder. If he told her that, she'd feel unintelligent, and that would only breed more negativity and self-hatred. Draco wasn't going to be the type of person to make someone sicker just because it was inconvenient for him to have to cope.

 _She_ was the one who was ill—not _him._

"Are you planning on doing it again today?"

"Not if we're going to the Great Hall after this." There was a hint of attitude to her tone. "Basically, I wake up every day planning not to eat anything. Sometimes, I can make it until bed. Sometimes, I can only make it to lunch. Otherwise, there's purging. At least then I can get the taste in my mouth without absorbing any of the calories."

He closed his eyes. "How is this _not_ about weight?"

"The weight loss is just a symptom," she said. "All of these things I've told you . . . They exist like separate entities in my head. I don't really connect them to the weight loss. It all just . . . Is."

He agreed with that. He'd read it in the books—the behaviors of purging or starving were a symptom of the disorder, _not_ the disorder itself. She was trying to control her environment, and she was trying to make something make sense.

Why did it feel like the mountain was even more insurmountable now?

"Will you try?" he asked. "Will you try to at least not purge again tonight? We can go to dinner in Hogsmeade, and then come back here and read together."

"I don't want to." She waved a hand. "I mean, I don't want to eat anything. I don't mind going to dinner and reading."

Dismay mingled with sadness, but he didn't show her. "Can I at least ask why?"

"Because I feel dirty after Ron kissed me. And an empty stomach makes me feel clean. Until I don't feel like that anymore, I'm not eating."

Draco closed his eyes as the hatred and fury reverberated through his body. After everything Hermione had been through, she hadn't needed the Weaselbee's filth, too.

He vowed to watch him burn.

"How can I take you to dinner if I know you're just going to get sick?" he asked.

"Pretend you don't know." She sat up on her elbow, her gaze flickering up and down his face. "It's a lot less stressful if you stop caring."

He gazed up at her, up at the face in which she couldn't seem to see the beauty that he could, and he shook his head.

"I can't."

She frowned and laid back down.

They laid there in the quiet for a while, each with their own thoughts.

Draco certainly knew a lot more now. He knew a lot about how her mind worked and how the disorder was affecting her. He didn't know how he was going to be able to fix her, but he knew he was going to try his hardest. Whatever he was doing wasn't working.

He needed to do more.

"If we fucked up yesterday and find out from Trelawney that we did," he said, "then I promise you it's gonna be all right. We have until eternity to figure things out. And if we figure them out and you still don't wanna be with me, then I'll go. I'll go, but I'll do everything I can to take care of you. There's no going back for me."

Her hand plucked at the fabric of his shirt. "Even if I keep disappointing you?"

"Do you plan to keep disappointing me?"

"That's the one thing I _don't_ plan."

"Then don't worry about it. Don't worry about anything ever again. I'm here." _And there's nothing for me to go back to._

She didn't answer him, but she allowed him to gather her up in his arms and hold her.

They skipped dinner.


	32. Chapter 32

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty**

Draco had never been this angry for this long in his entire life.

He wanted to murder the Weaselbee. Legitimately. And he had for a long, _long_ time. Every time he thought about how horrifically his uncaring selfishness had gotten Hermione hurt or affected her poorly, the flames rose higher in his chest.

The clock had run out.

He spent the rest of the night after his conversation with Hermione—as well as the following morning thinking of all the different ways he could eviscerate the oaf without even killing him yet so he could cause him as much pain as possible.

Everything he'd done to Hermione was unforgivable, and Draco didn't care what she said. Verbally, mentally, and emotionally abusing her. Leaving her without a wand in an unfamiliar city. Demanding he give her body to him, and then claiming she had a "shite personality" when she didn't. Cornering her in _their_ common room and forcing his disgusting lips upon her.

Absolutely fucking not.

On Wednesday, Draco and Hermione had both gotten pulled aside by Professor Flitwick. Apparently, he'd noticed that they'd skived off and the other professors were worried since holiday had only just ended. None of these professors had decided to go to McGonagall yet, but the warning was clear in Flitwick's tone. Draco saw the wizard's eyes sweeping the length of Hermione's body with worry and concern.

This had distressed her.

When they'd gotten to the Great Hall, she'd wordlessly walked to the Gryffindor table without so much as a second glance. Draco had felt dismayed, having wanted to see if she was finally amenable to sitting together at one of their House's tables. Begrudgingly, he'd gone to sit with Blaise, Pansy, and Theo.

Theo didn't speak to him, but he chatted in a guarded manner with Blaise and Pansy—as though Draco's presence made him uncomfortable. Blaise picked up on it but said nothing. Pansy was as chipper and oblivious as ever. Draco snuck glances across the Great Hall.

Hermione was eating.

He fought the full-body sigh he wanted to let out. It was Flitwick's warning. It had to be. Circe, the girl had a threshold for stress that was too low to function. And he couldn't even do anything about it. He felt so helpless.

She left the moment her plate was empty.

"We're already going to London again soon," Pansy said, nudging Draco's side and drawing his attention away.

"Oh, yeah?" he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "When?"

"Not this weekend, but the next," Blaise said. "Pansy wants another tattoo."

"And I never got to go dancing," she said with a pout.

"Ah," Draco answered. He couldn't tear his eyes off of the doors Hermione had exited through. Right now, as he sat there, she was probably purging. It made him so fucking sad that his chest hurt.

"Why don't you ask Hermione if she wants to come, too?" Pansy asked, sounding excited. "We had so much fun last time, and—"

"Last time?" Theo set his fork down, his gaze sliding back and forth between Pansy and Draco. "What do you—wait—what do you mean last time?"

Draco kept his facial expression blank. "We went to London together on Christmas Eve, remember?"

"Oh, that's right." Theo's gaze hardened. "Well, if it's just for a tattoo and dancing this time, we should all go."

Draco's stomach clenched with his desire to say no, but he knew there was no reason for it. Whether he and Theo were getting along or not, they had been friends for years. That, and Blaise and Pansy were neutral parties.

"Yeah!" Pansy cried, clapping her hands. "Oh, that sounds like so much fun. What if we all got matching tattoos? Something to remember our Eighth Year by. Something to show we survived."

"I dunno if Hermione would wanna do that," Draco said. "I would, though."

"She might," Theo said. "I mean, you don't know what she's thinking. Maybe she'd like the idea."

Did he have to contradict _everything_ Draco said?

Draco sighed and looked up. Theo was getting up to leave and now he had a direct view of the Weaselbee. The redheaded oaf was scarfing his food down, talking and laughing with his friends as though he hadn't just destroyed Hermione's progress on Monday.

Perhaps Azkaban wasn't that bad.

* * *

Draco had no idea where to put the emotions.

When he was younger, he would have sniveled to his mother. He couldn't do that anymore. He also would have ranted to his father. He couldn't do that anymore, either.

Except that he could.

He knew that he could. All he had to do was write to him.

But how could he write to him when there was a wooden chest full of unopened letters from Lucius sitting on his dresser? His father had always been the bitter type. What would he think if Draco's first response to him in months was to whinge about how poorly a _Weasley_ was treating his witch? His witch, who just so happened to not only be Hermione Granger, but a Muggle-born?

Draco was a changed man but he predicted that his father was not.

And yet . . .

There was a reason why Draco had always threatened to tell his father about everything. Lucius would know exactly what to do. Lucius would know exactly the right steps to take to end the Weaselbee without anyone finding out it was him. He would know how Draco could cover his tracks and—

Okay, maybe that was overzealous.

He wanted the Weaselbee _dead_ ; he didn't want to _kill_ him. He wanted to see the life leave his eyes at his hands, but he didn't want to be the one who got in trouble for it. If he and Hermione were about to start a life together, whatever that looked like, he didn't want to start it with a sentence in Azkaban.

His father would know how to do that.

Draco wrote and rewrote the letter before leaving for breakfast Thursday morning, finding that it was best to err on the side of vague.

_Father,_

_I find myself in a predicament of the romantic sort._

_There is a wizard who has crossed every line in the sand, and he continues to try and cross the ones I draw. I made my presence known to him, and he obliterated that line on his way across it—again. I fear his House ensures he's not afraid of anything._

_So, you're hearing about this._

_Your son—_

He crossed that one out.

_Best,_

_Draco._

His hands shook as he sealed the letter. Because if he sent this letter, that meant that no matter what response his father sent, he was going to have to open it. Disregarding all the other letters in the wooden chest, the next letter would end their one-sided armistice.

But for Hermione, he'd do anything.

Draco headed to the owlery, his heart as heavy as his steps. This was terrifying—more terrifying than anything he'd done since the war ended. Almost as terrifying as losing Hermione, but more terrifying than the possibility of failure in his Sixth Year. He couldn't imagine what his father was going to think when he saw that he'd finally gotten a letter from his son. Couldn't imagine what he'd feel when he read it.

Would he even respond?

In the owlery, it was colder than he'd expected. The snow capped the hills in the distance and rolled down across the land, it having snowed quite an immense amount overnight. Draco called for his owl, Eomer. When the letter was tied to his ankle, he sent him off and watched him wing away, into the distance.

No matter what he felt, he knew this wasn't a mistake. It would never be a mistake when it came to helping her.

The stairwell was cold and dimly lit from the windows high above. Draco's brow was furrowed, deep in thought as he made his way down and around the first bend. Then, he stopped.

Weasley.

"Oh," the Weaselbee sneered. "It's _you_."

"It's me." Draco's countenance darkened. "Come to send a love letter your mum?"

The Weaselbee blanched but made no movements. "As if it's any business of yours. Given you're likely here to send a letter to the one remaining member of that rubbish heap you call a family."

Draco's fury swelled and swelled. He took a step down, bringing him closer to who had now become his mortal enemy. He narrowed his eyes.

"Say one more bloody thing about my family," he hissed, "and I'll have no issues joining my rubbish heap in Azkaban."

One corner of the Weaselbee's mouth drifted upward into a lazy half-smile. He had an envelope in his hand but he crossed his arms over his chest. "You could join him, or you could join your mother in Hell. Doesn't matter which way you go—as long as you leave."

Draco had been wrong.

 _This_ was the angriest he'd ever been.

"You're fucking lucky, you know that?" he snarled. "You're fucking lucky that the _only_ reason I haven't drained every drop of blood from your body is because of Hermione. If it weren't for her protecting your sorry arse, you'd already be _dead_."

The Weaselbee merely smirked. "Ooh, threatening words coming from a failed Death Eater-in-training. What, you scared of what a _girl_ will do to you if you brass her off? Last time I checked, she wasn't your girlfriend."

"Last time I checked, she wasn't _your_ girlfriend, either." He descended another step, a cruel smirk twisting his face. "Though that didn't seem to stop you from sexually assaulting her in our common room. Or did you forget that _I'm_ the one she's snogging now?"

The matching smirk on the Weaselbee's face faded. Draco continued, driving the knife in deeper.

"That's right. We're snogging. I know what her cunt tastes like, too. You might know a little bit about that. Er—wait. Last I _fucking checked_ , she didn't want you to even _touch_ her, let alone fuck her. She may not be my girlfriend." Draco stopped one step above him, their chests almost touching from how close he was. "But she _is_ mine."

Draco was being disrespectful to her. He _knew_ he was being disrespectful. But he couldn't stop the old version of himself—the version that everyone called Malfoy—from jumping out to tear at the Weaselbee's insecurities. He wanted to bully him. He wanted to watch the light of strength leave his eyes so he could make him feel as small as his actions had made Hermione feel.

He wanted to hurt him.

"How could she possibly want someone as reprehensible and disgusting as _you_?" the Weasel growled, and he used his forefingers to shove against Draco's shoulders. He stumbled back up a step. "You watched your own aunt torture her on the floor of _your_ home. You probably laughed because everything you are is devoid of worth. You're just temporary, Malfoy. You're _nothing_."

Draco tried to stop himself. He really did.

Or maybe he didn't try hard enough at all.

"And your selfishness in Paris caused her to get raped in an alleyway outside of your hotel while her wand was _right inside the fucking room_. So, maybe we're not so different after all," he hissed through clenched teeth. "The only difference there _is_ between the two of us is that I'm going to spend the rest of my life making amends with her hand in mine. But you? You'll die knowing you're the reason she fell apart. You'll die knowing _you_ fucked up."

_No. No, I shouldn't have said that. That wasn't my secret to tell._

_It was hers._

And then, before he could rein in his rage, Draco used the fingers of one hand to shove the Weaselbee's left shoulder. Hard. Harder than he meant to.

Hard enough to make him fall.

The Weaselbee tumbled head over heels down the stairs, grunting and screaming all the way down to the bottom. He hit the walls as he went. It looked as painful as Draco hoped it was. He hoped it hurt as badly as Hermione's heart did.

Ron _deserved_ this.

Draco pushed up the sleeves of his black jumper as he followed the Weasel down, his rage burning so bright and so vehement that he wasn't sure if he was going to let the oaf come out of this one alive. He reached the landing the moment the Weaselbee landed on his back, and then he leaned down to grab the front of his shirt. When he hauled him up, the Weasel's wand slipped out of his sleeve and clattered to the floor, where Draco merely stepped on it so it couldn't be summoned.

He slammed his fist into the center of the Weaselbee's face, just as he'd been dreaming of doing for weeks. And it felt good. It felt phenomenal. His skin giving way beneath his knuckles. The crunch of bone against cartilage. The spurt of blood from his nostrils.

A wand and a spell would never have filled him with the same satisfaction.

"I should kill you!" he roared as he beat Weasley's face again and again and again. "Everything you do—everything you've done to her— _I should fucking kill you for it!"_

The Weaselbee's hands rose, trying to shield himself, but he was too weak. Something was wrong with one of his legs.

"I'm—" He coughed and spluttered as blood ran into his mouth and seeped between his teeth. "I'm sorry! I didn't know!"

"And you'll _never_ fucking know what pain she went through!" Draco wrapped his hand around his throat and pushed his face close to his so he could see how much hatred burned in his eyes. "You'll never know what it's like to watch her try to be strong when she's so fucking scared she can hardly breathe. You'll never know how hard it is to tell her no when she wants you to wash her _six fucking times_ because she still feels so unclean with five. So fuck you, Weasley. _Fuck_ you."

His fist reared back and then— _crack_ —one final blow to the Weaselbee's nose, and it was completely broken. Mangled. He let out a rattling breath, his eyes unfocused.

"Now, you know."

The Weasel groaned when Draco threw him down again and collapsed in a heap. Tears leaked down his swelling, reddened face. He didn't seem able to move.

"I'm sorry," came the Weaselbee's weak, broken voice. "I never thought—I never imagined—I didn't _mean_ for it to happen that way."

"And I didn't mean to make the mistakes I did," Draco spat. "But your intentions when you left her there were to scare her. To make her feel weak and powerless. To punish her for making you feel like less of a man. And your intentions caused her to get hurt. I may be nothing, but I'm something to her. But you? You'll never be anything more than a reminder."

The Weaselbee's eyes widened. The words had struck home.

"And if you tell anyone I did this to you," Draco hissed, "I'll tell everyone what you did to Hermione in the common room. All it will take is a Pensieve to see the truth."

Draco shook his hand out, ignoring the sting of his split knuckles. It was worth it. For her, it would always be worth it. Every last move. Every last word.

But he was fucked.

* * *

Draco was a man.

He knew that he'd fucked up. He'd fucked up _badly_. Not because of what he'd done to the Weaselbee—no, he didn't regret that and he was confident that the Weaselbee had learned his lesson.

Because of the fact that he'd betrayed Hermione's secret.

He felt horrible. Sick to his stomach. Like every part of himself lacked value. This was exactly why he couldn't tell Hermione about his mother. Because it was a betrayal to her memory. Hermione was alive, and he'd just betrayed her.

And she didn't even know yet.

At the end of his last class, he snuck out to Professor Sprout's garden, right outside the greenhouse. After a quick Disillusionment spell to keep any rare prying eyes away, he picked a bouquet of flowers for her. They were all colors—red, yellow, white, blue, and purple—and he tied them off with a conjured ribbon. When he was able to access his father's accounts, he knew he'd be able to get her roses, but for now, this would have to do.

Draco was a man and he knew well enough to know that flowers were the first step to an apology.

He entered the common room right as Hermione was exiting the kitchenette. She still wore her uniform, but her robes were tossed haphazardly over the back of the couch. Aside from that and the half-empty lit Christmas tree, the common room was clean.

"You cleaned," he said, his eyebrows rising.

"You brought flowers," she shot back, also looking surprised.

They walked toward one another, and he held the bouquet out to her. She smiled and closed her eyes as she inhaled the scent. When she pulled back, his gaze couldn't help but fall to where he could clearly see the diamond star around her neck.

"They smell lovely," she said. "Thank you, Draco. But what are they for?"

"Because I fancy you."

She stared up at him, looking startled. He supposed he felt startled, too. They'd done all manner of things, from holding hands to falling asleep together to what had happened on the couch on Monday, but they'd never explicitly stated if they had any feelings. Draco felt his cheeks warming, but he did his best to ignore it. He pushed his hand through his messy hair.

"You—" She cut herself off to gasp. "What happened to your hand?"

"Oh, this?" Draco swallowed, waving his still-aching hand dismissively and dropping it to his side. "It was nothing. I was rounding a corner and someone called my name. When I turned, my hand flew out and I slammed it into the corner of the wall."

"Hm. Well, you should put some Dittany on it."

"Not all of us carry Dittany around in our bags, witch," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now, why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just that . . ." Her smile turned wistful. "No one's ever gotten me flowers before."

At that, he fought the urge to scoff.

"Well, get used to it. A wizard doesn't need a reason to bring flowers to his witch." He leaned down to press a soft kiss to her cheek. "You promised me dinner this morning. Go put those in water and then we can go."

"Okay," she said, her tone bright and merry. "I want to stop by the Great Hall, though. Parvati told me she needed help with a study guide, and I told her I'd look it over really quick."

"All right," he said with reluctance. He wanted a chance to distract her before she inevitably found out about the Weaselbee.

Hermione went to the kitchen, where he heard the water running and a spell for conjuring being uttered. Then, she disappeared into her dorm room, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later, she emerged wearing a dress that wasn't much different from the one she'd worn in November on her failure of a date with the Weaselbee. Her curls were loose, as they always were.

"How do I look?" she asked, twirling for him in the dining area and holding her arms out in a dainty manner. "Is it too dressy for the Three Broomsticks?"

"You look beautiful, Hermione," he murmured, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Maybe we should stay here."

She flushed and fixed him with a stern look. "Do you want me to eat, or not?"

His smile faltered at that.

She walked past him to the coat rack, where she pulled her coat on, and then grabbed his to hand it to him.

"You know everyone's going to see us walk in together, wearing our coats," she said. "They're going to suspect we're going on a date."

"Does that bother you?" he asked as he pulled his peacoat on.

"I—Well . . ." She looked thoughtful for a moment and then placed her hand on his chest. "No. It doesn't."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. "Then let them think whatever they'd like."

"Did you know Ron got hurt today?" she said suddenly, giving him a concerned look.

Er—uh-oh.

"No," he lied. "What happened?"

"He slipped on the stairs in the owlery and fell down to the bottom. Smashed his face on the stone and broke his nose. I found out from Pansy in Charms today, and she found out from Dean. I guess Dean was in the Infirmary this morning for something. He's all right now—I saw him in class after lunch. Madam Pomfret knows what she's doing."

"Well, good," Draco said, because he was still himself. He cupped Hermione's face and leaned down to kiss her. Pulling back, he smirked at her. "I'd be lying if I didn't think he deserved it."

"I just feel poorly," she said, still frowning.

"Why? Because he got hurt?"

"No. Because I feel like he deserved it, too."

Draco kissed her again, just to keep himself from telling her the truth.

When they got to the Great Hall, Draco made a last-minute decision and reached for her hand. He twined his fingers with hers, relishing in the cheerful smile she sent up to him. The mutual agreement that they were ready for this part filled him with joy edged with guilt.

This wouldn't last.

Hermione pulled him towards the Gryffindor table, to where Parvati sat flanked by all the people who hated him most—including the Gryffindors who had been present at the Battle of Hogwarts and seen his family's spiral downward.

And the Weaselbee.

He looked fine. His nose was intact. He wasn't limping. He had not a single bruise on his body. But the look in his eyes and the wounds Draco had accidentally left on his own knuckles was all Draco needed to remember that he'd beaten the fuck out him that morning.

Draco's palm felt like it was going to sweat, but Hermione only tightened her hold.

"Hi, Hermione," Parvati said slowly, her suspicious glance rendering Draco awkward and speechless. "And Malfoy."

"Don't mind him," Hermione said in a chipper tone. "We're off on a date tonight. Do you have your study guide?"

Okay. Wow.

"Yeah," Parvati said. "I have it."

"Great! Can I see it?"

Parvati cast Draco one more wary glance before she reached into her bag and withdrew her parchment. Hermione took it, all without ever letting go of his hand. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd say she was trembling.

Was she nervous to be in front of the Weaselbee?

That thought sent a fresh wave of determination through him. He didn't care how anxious he was—Hermione came first. If she was scared or nervous to be in front of Weasley, then he was going to make sure she had something to hide behind. Something to use as armor.

Draco held the Weaselbee's gaze as his fingers slipped the curls on one side of Hermione's head over her shoulder, arranging them neatly on her back so she could see without them getting in the way.

Instead of a glare, the oaf paled and looked down at his food.

The other Eighth Years continued to glower and stare him down, but he didn't care. He wasn't afraid of any of them.

He feared only one thing.

"Okay, it looks good," Hermione said, handing the parchment back to Parvati. "I'd just change the wording on this question to be affirmative instead. Because if the exam isn't looking for an opinion tomorrow, you might accidentally give one and get marked down."

"Thank you," Parvati said. Then, after a second, she blurted out, "Are you two going together?"

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances, and he raised one eyebrow. They were right in front of her friends. The entire Gryffindor table. The Weaselbee.

"Yes," she said, squeezing his hand again. "And as I said before, we've got a date. So, we'll see you—Oh, the mail's here."

Everyone glanced up. The owls were swooping in, dropping parcels and envelopes. He barely managed to let go of Hermione so he could catch both hers and his mail in midair before they fluttered to the ground. But it didn't matter.

She got two more envelopes from two separate owls.

As everyone began tearing into their parcels, he handed Hermione the letter of hers he'd caught. He stared at the one that was for him. It clearly had his name written on the front, but the handwriting was horrific. Wrinkled and wrong, like the person writing it was in the midst of forgetting how to write.

Familiar in the way it ached.

This was it. A response from his father that technically, he could ignore. But at the same time, he couldn't. Something inside of him told him it was time. Maybe not for the other letters—but he could manage this one. He had to.

Feeling several pairs of eyes on him, he schooled his facial expression into an impassive one and broke the silver wax seal.

Gods. The handwriting. The stopped and started sentences. Like it was so hard for him to use a quill—like he was losing his ability to write, or like it was too cold. But he'd still tried.

For his son.

_Draco,_

_You must put your witch in front of all things, like I failed to do with your mother. You must stop drawing lines in the sand and start defending the ones you have already drawn. If he fears nothing, then no punishment is too severe where your witch is concerned._

_You are a Slytherin and a Malfoy. That means you are a dragon._

_Be careful and guard your treasure._

_Love,_

_Your Father_

It felt like a punch to his gut.

All of the responses Draco had ignored—the months he'd let his father rot in that cell—and his father had dropped any bitterness he might feel just to help him. His son. His son, who'd crossed that out just to write " _Best_ " beside it, right where he could see.

Suddenly, Hermione turned to face him.

"How could you?"

His heart sank into the pits of Hell. He dragged his gaze from his father's poor handwriting—handwriting that had once been elegant—and looked down into the eyes of his witch. He almost took a step back.

They were on fire.

He didn't say anything. He knew what was happening. What he'd done. The way she glared at the Weaselbee and then up at Draco again—he knew his mistake had been discovered. Sorrow opened him up inside and ripped him into pieces.

"How could you do this to me, Draco? How could you—You were the _only_ one who—You know what. No. I never should have trusted you. I never should have . . ." She shook her head, clearly on the verge of angry tears, and she smacked the letters she'd received against his chest.

The silence of the surrounding students humiliated Draco.

"Don't follow me," she hissed, "or it'll be the fifth time I slap you."

Her curls bounced against her back as she stormed out of the Great Hall. Draco didn't even have the energy to feel irritated asTheo dashed off after her as though he'd been waiting for the chance to.

If she found solace in food or in Theo, it was what Draco deserved.

He stood there in the tense, charged silence, on display like a hideous sculpture, and read the letters.

_Hermione,_

_We need to talk. I don't know why you didn't tell me what happened in Paris, but at the very least—you could have told me and we could have gone to the Ministry. I'm a Junior Auror. We have ways of finding Muggles who deserve to be found._

_I don't want to discuss this over a letter, though. I'm taking leave from work and coming tomorrow._

_I won't tell McGonagall. Yet._

_Love always,_

_Harry_

Hands trembling, he moved on to the next one.

_I'm writing this really fast because Harry's really, really mad right now. He wants us to come there tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. You're my best friend, even if I'm not yours. Whoever hurt you won't get away with it._

_Harry's gonna make sure of it._

_Love,_

_Ginny_

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The third and last letter.

_Hermione,_

_This letter is from Molly and I both, but she was too upset to write and I didn't want her to send a Howler just to distress you with her weeping. We need to focus on you right now._

_Ron wrote to us and told us what happened in Paris. And while we are so beyond disappointed in him for his part, we are more concerned about you. We worry for your health and well-being, and we worry for your heart._

_Did you see a Healer after the incident? Have you seen one since? I know this is awkward, but please be sure you have found out if you're pregnant or not. I am sure that you didn't contact an Auror because of the fear you must have felt. But did you tell any professors when you got to school? Perhaps even Madam Pomfrey?_

_I feel the most apologetic. You're my daughter. You are my daughter, and I failed to protect you. I can understand now why you wanted to leave on Christmas. I can only hope Draco is taking care of you and keeping you safe._

_Harry and I are going to take care of this. I promise._

_Love,_

_Molly and Arthur_


	33. Chapter 33

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-One**

Draco felt like he was losing his mind.

He didn't know how to fix the damage that he'd done. There was no excuse for the way he'd betrayed Hermione's secret to the last person who deserved to know it. If she never forgave him, he wouldn't be surprised.

When he woke on Friday to an empty bed, he felt the sorrow sinking bone-deep all over again. He'd hoped that he would wake to find her curled up beside him, unable to sleep without him there. But he'd known better.

Instead of an emerald sky, he'd walked her dreams, watching the painful flashes of the previous day play repeatedly in her mind like a film reel.

It didn't feel like he'd lost her, but it felt like things had changed.

He heard voices coming from the common room. It was Potter and Ginny. Their letters had said that they'd be coming, so he was by no means surprised. However, he felt nervous. No matter what the situation, he knew they'd choose her side.

Was he even welcome in his own common room anymore?

Draco dressed in his uniform, knowing that he couldn't afford to skive off anymore classes. When he walked out into the kitchenette, his palms sweat-slick and jaw gritted against his nerves, he cast one singular glance into the common room.

Hermione sat in the armchair, her legs curled up into the seat and a mug in her hand. She wore Draco's jumper and a pair of leggings. Potter sat on the couch, on the side closest to her with a mug of his own. Ginny flitted about the tree, taking the rest of it down while listening to the two Gryffindors talking.

She was wearing his jumper.

Relief sunk into him, reminding him that what he'd done wasn't entirely unforgivable. If she hated him, she wouldn't be wearing his clothing. But the way she very carefully kept her gaze trained on her friends showed him that she couldn't even look at him right now.

He deserved the pain that caused.

Since he'd missed breakfast, he decided to pull out some eggs and ham and set them to cooking on the stove. With a wave of his wand, he let magic do it for him, leaning his hips back against the opposite counter to watch it cook with his arms crossed over his chest.

That, and he was eavesdropping.

". . . can you be certain?" came the tail-end of Potter's sentence.

"Because I checked, Harry," Hermione replied, her tone a bit conspiratorial. "And I know this is a lot of information, but I haven't had my cycle in months."

"Hermione—"

"Shut up, Harry," said Ginny. "Are you serious, Hermione? When did you lose it?"

There was a second of silence and then Hermione replied, "I think I lost it while we were on the hunt. I wasn't tracking it, but I do remember losing it sometime after Dobby."

Draco resisted the urge to punch the wall. There could only be one reason why she would be stressed out enough to lose her cycle, or to be influenced to engage in disordered behaviors enough to lose that much weight.

There was a scar etched into her arm to prove that.

He waved his wand and flipped the ham and eggs over. The crackling filled his ears, and the scent of bacon was aromatic.

Potter sighed. "Well, I'm not exactly an expert on . . . _That_ , but couldn't pregnancy still be possible?"

"Yes," Hermione said, "and that's why I checked. I never was pregnant, and I've never been."

"Okay, then that's good."

"So, what's going to happen?" Hermione asked. "I don't want anyone at this school to know. It happened outside of school, and I'd like to keep it that way. It's bad enough that—that you all know. It wasn't exactly something I consented to."

"Of course, Hermione," Potter said, his tone going gentler. "I'm not planning on telling McGonagall or anyone else here. Arthur and I are going to work with the Auror Department to launch a search for the Muggle who did it, and then—"

"I really don't want to," she said, sounding like she was experiencing more than a little discomfort. "I don't want to have to face him in a Muggle court, and if the Ministry goes after him, _someone_ will leak the information. I _really_ don't want to see it in the _Prophet."_

"But Hermione," Ginny protested, "you can't possibly mean to let him get away with it, can you?"

"Couldn't you just let us find him and deal with him in a magical way?" Harry complained. He snapped his fingers. "We could sic your pet snake on him."

"Harry!"

Hearing Hermione's uncontrollable giggling was _almost_ enough to absolve Potter of his insolence.

The food was done. Draco plated it up and ate at the counter.

"No, I don't know what I want to do," Hermione said, sighing. "I've been trying so hard to forget it happened, but now that this has happened—now that you all know—I'm going to have to start over."

"You're not going to have to start over," Ginny said, her voice moving towards Draco. He made eye contact with her as she placed the box of half-broken, half-intact Christmas ornaments on the table. Then, she returned to the common room. "It's always better to be surrounded by friends and family when you're struggling. You can't do anything alone.

Draco bristled. She wasn't—

"I'm not alone," Hermione said. "But I do feel lonely. And I just don't know if this is something I can face yet."

"Hermione, I don't know how to tell you this," Harry said, "but this isn't exactly up for debate. Arthur has already gone to Kingsley. We're—"

" _Kingsley knows_?" she practically screeched. A groan. "Oh, Harry, _no_! I didn't want _anyone_ to know! It was just supposed to be in the past and then it was just supposed to be Draco and I, and now—"

"What does _he_ think about all this?"

Draco nearly choked on his food. His heart raced. Were they going to call him in there to talk? He wasn't sure Hermione wanted to be in a room with him. Not to mention, what if the Weaselbee hadn't heeded his warning and had told Potter how he'd _really_ fallen down the stairs?

But Hermione changed the subject.

"I don't want to press charges in any court of law," Hermione said, her voice firm. "Magical or Muggle. I have no doubt that you can find him, but—"

"We could make it quiet," Harry insisted. "No one would know. We can keep it between Kingsley, Arthur, one Senior Auror, and I."

" _No_ , Harry!" She sounded panicked. "I don't want anyone else to know what he looks like!"

Silence.

Draco set his fork down as realization dawned on him.

She was humiliated.

The thought of anyone knowing what the man who hurt her looked like made her want to be sick. This wasn't going to help her—it was only going to hurt her. As badly as the man deserved to be punished for what he'd done, she needed to be ready first.

How could she not see that she hadn't forgotten it? Why couldn't she see that it was poisoning her form the inside out? As much as he was loathe to admit it, the She-Weasel and Potter were right. She needed to face it in the way that would get her the most justice.

He wouldn't mind being sicced on the man, either.

"It's not about knowing what he looks like," Ginny said. "Honestly, Hermione. He's just . . . _Out there_ , walking around. Free as a bird. He _deserves_ to be punished. Do you _want_ him to get away with it?"

"No, of course not." She sounded forlorn. Broken. "I just . . . I never wanted anyone to know this."

"Then why did you tell Ron?" Harry asked.

Draco's head pulled back on his shoulders in shock. So the Weaselbee had kept his mouth shut. That was good. Hermione had to have figured it out because Draco was the only person who knew.

But it didn't make anything better for her—it only made things a little less stressful for him.

That wasn't fair.

"I just don't want to talk about this anymore," Hermione said, surprising Draco with her desire to keep his involvement a secret. "I have to go to class, and I'm not even dressed yet."

"Should you really be—"

"It happened in the Summer, and I've been going to classes just fine." The chair creaked, indicating that she'd stood. "Maybe we can meet for lunch."

"Hermione," Harry said, and he gave an incredulous laugh. "I don't think you understand what's going on here. You don't have a choice in this. We're going to look for the man who did this to you, and then we're dealing with him. You can either help us, or you can accept that you have no control over it."

"Harry," Ginny scolded. "There's no reason to—"

"No, Ginny. She needs to know." There was a pause. "I've never been one to follow the rules, Hermione. Not where my loved ones are concerned. And I'm certainly not going to follow yours. I don't care what it takes—I'll use Legilimency if I have to get that memory."

Draco thought he might hex him. He was already moving towards the common room.

Ginny gasped, but Hermione spoke and she sounded livid.

"Harry, I love you, but that's unacceptable. You do not have my permission to use Legilimency on me. I said I wasn't ready, and that means I'm not bloody ready. I understand that this is painful for you, but it's more painful for me. It's painful for me to walk through this life feeling like my body doesn't even belong to me."

"Hermione, you—"

Draco entered the common room, running a hand through his hair. His gaze cut across the tension to lock with Potter's. Potter scowled.

"Don't tell me you agree with her. _You_? Come on."

"She said no, Potter," Draco replied, shaking his head as though his hands were tied. "That means no. If you want to find the Muggle before she's ready, you'll have to do it without her memories."

"Wow." Potter scoffed. "Colour me shocked. And here I thought you'd be the one to encourage me to break the rules."

"You thought wrong."

Ginny's glance traveled between the two, and then she put her hands on her hips. "I think we should go. This isn't something that we can change, Harry. Hermione, this is what you want?"

"Yes," Draco heard her say from the mouth of the hallway. "This is what I want. If you can't let it go, then you're going to have to find him without my help."

Potter's head tipped back and he tangled his fingers in his mop of black hair. "Fine. It doesn't make an iota of sense to me, but fine. I'll respect it until you're ready, but I'm not closing the investigation, and I'm one thousand percent certain Kingsley will disagree with this."

"You'll respect me in general," Hermione said. "Now, you can go, and I'll meet the two of you for lunch."

Draco, who was already ready to go to class, chose that moment to simply walk out of the common room without looking at her. He didn't want to be alone with Hermione, not until he knew it was safe to be. She had been so hurt and so angry the previous night that he thought it was best to just go.

Godric, _fuck_ , he hoped they could make amends for this.

Even though it made sense why she didn't want anyone to know the man's face, it didn't make sense why she'd be so against getting justice. Did she think she didn't deserve it?

Did she think she deserved what had happened to her?

Draco stopped at the end of the corridor and leaned back against the wall, tipping his head back in thought. This was the most exhausting thing. Coping with her ordeal and her disorder while simultaneously trying to cope with his mother's death and the fear of losing Hermione the same way?

Sometimes, he felt too soft. Sometimes, he wished he could get a little of the old version of himself and inject it into his veins. The person he was before the war—during it, even—would never have just _accepted_ Hermione's wishes where this was concerned. He may have pretended to, but he'd inevitably find a way around it. Just like when he'd worked his arse off to get those Death Eaters into the castle, even though his mother hadn't wanted him to.

Like what he'd done with the Weaselbee.

"Malfoy!"

Draco, who had closed his eyes against his growing headache, cracked them open. Potter and Ginny were walking down the hall towards him. Hermione wasn't with them, so she was likely getting ready for class.

"Malfoy, I don't know what the two of you have between you, but you can't possibly think she's seeing reason." Potter came to a stop in front of him. Ginny was to the side, facing them both. "We need to find that Muggle. What if he's hurting other women? Even you can't think that's right."

"It's not right," Draco agreed, adjusting his bag strap on his shoulder. "But she's afraid. Hermione lives a life of fear."

"She's a Gryffindor," Potter said. "That's not possible."

"Houses don't determine who you are—they determine your path and the choices you make while you walk it. What happened to her . . . She can't find her path. She doesn't want to."

_I think she just wants to die._

_But I'm not gonna let her._

Draco was going to take care of it.

Potter exchanged glances with Ginny.

"How do you know her well enough to know that?" Ginny asked. "We've known her for what feels like our entire lives—Hermione Granger's not afraid of anything."

"People change."

"Not her."

Draco turned to look down his nose at her. "Do you know what it's like to offer to get on your knees for your rapist because you'd rather that than to let him have your body?"

Ginny opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. She closed her mouth, her brow furrowing tight and low, and said nothing. The sadness in her eyes mirrored Potter's fury.

"She's more afraid than she's ever been in her entire life," Draco said. "If she says she's not ready to face this, then she's not ready."

Then, before they could speak, he took a step closer.

"Potter, this won't make a lot of sense to you, but it's looking like Hermione and I are going to be in each other's lives for a long time. A _long_ time. She's it for me. I'd do absolutely fucking anything for her, and I'd do it without hesitation. Does that make sense to you?"

Potter narrowed his eyes. "There's a lot that makes sense to me, Malfoy, but I'm not sure this does. Are you wanting to help?"

"I'm _going_ to help."

He'd spent his entire life making the wrong choices. Choices that ended up getting other people hurt. He knew now that he should have been making choices that didn't hurt the people he wanted to save.

She'd be angry, but when she remembered the Slytherin that he was—when she remembered that he was Draco fucking Malfoy?

She'd thank him.

"How are you going to help?" Potter asked, looking down as he took a step towards Draco.

Draco withdrew his wand from his sleeve and held it to his temple.

_The Weaselbee was only the beginning._

"I want you to find him," Draco said, pulling the tip of his wand away from his head. As it drew back, he felt the memory slithering out of his mind. It floated silvery and wispy through the air, the end attached to the wand tip. "And when you do, I want you to take me to him. I don't want him to make it to Kingsley. Do you understand?"

Potter stared at him, and then the line of his jaw became set.

"You'll be the first one I contact."

He conjured a small glass bottle with a cork top. Taking the top off, he held it up so Draco could drop the memory inside.

"This is a violation, you know," Ginny said. "It's your memory, but it's hers."

"That man's existence is a violation," Draco said, fixing her with a glare that withered. Then, he looked at Potter again. "And I think Potter and I can agree on the same version of justice that he deserves. Can't we, Potter?"

Potter clenched his hand into a fist around the glass bottle containing the precious memory of Draco's perception of the dream.

"I'll find him without anyone's help," he growled. "Ginny and I—we'll take care of it. And then we'll come for you."

As Potter started past him, Draco glared into the distance, his hand shooting out to press his forefingers against the front of the shorter man's shoulders. Potter stopped and looked up at him in query.

"I'm trusting you to keep this between us. You, me, and your witch are the only ones who know about this. I mean it—if we don't look out for her, she won't look out for herself. I'm sure the last place you want to go is Azkaban, especially with that pretty Auror career ahead of you."

"Malfoy," Potter said, gently moving Draco's hand away from his shoulder. He was smirking. "You'll find it interesting to know I was almost sorted into Slytherin. Hermione's worth the possibility of losing out on my career, but trust me—none of us will be losing anything. We'll find him. Be ready."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Draco went to the Great Hall for lunch.

He almost didn't, knowing how royally he'd embarrassed himself the night before at mail time. But he was hungry and he was in a poor mood. He'd already spent the entire year being a social pariah for being a former Death Eater. He couldn't even perform a spell without wondering if an Auror was going to call him to McGonagall's office to ask him why.

What did it matter if he added another problem to his roster?

Everyone stared at him, leaning in to whisper to themselves as he walked over to the Slytherin table. He paid them no mind. His headache raged on, having not abated since that morning. Charms had been an irritation, especially given the fact that Pansy sat beside Hermione and not him, and the two of them had talked each other's ears off as though everything wasn't completely fucked at home.

Home.

He almost felt embarrassed to be thinking it. His life had been so wrapped up in hers that he couldn't think of the dorm in any other way. He couldn't imagine his life without her in it.

Still, he didn't regret beating the Weaselbee. He would never regret defending her honor.

But he did regret telling her secret. He regretted breaking her trust. He regretted taking the one thing they shared and using it to further his own agenda.

He felt disgusted with himself.

"You look like shite."

Draco glanced up, his forehead propped against his palm. His spoon was stirring through his beef stew in an absent manner as he stared at the whorls in the wooden table until they blurred. Now, he blinked to refocus his vision and saw that Theo and Blaise were sitting down across from him.

"Yeah, well," he said, "I feel like shite."

"Are you ill?" Blaise asked as he plated up some food.

"In the head, perhaps." _Because I made a stupid, unnecessary mistake._

"I've been wondering that for years," Blaise joked.

Draco sneered at him and took a bite. It tasted like nothing.

"Where's Granger?" Blaise asked.

Theo and Draco spoke at the same time.

"She's with Potter."

"She went to lunch with Potter."

Draco didn't know what came over him. He felt a violent, possessive rage washing over him, rendering him almost a puddle of fury right there on the bench. He would have bent his spoon if he were as strong as a werewolf. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that still pumped through his veins from throwing Ron Weasley down the stairs. It may have been the fact that he'd plotted murder with Harry Potter that morning.

He was done.

"I've fucking had it with you, Theo," he snarled. "What the fuck do you want with _my_ witch? You know she's mine, right? Did she tell you that? Somewhere between your cryptic statements and you following her around like a puppy dog, did she tell you about the fact that we're practically fucking _together_?"

Blaise dropped his jaw, as did several of the nearby Slytherins. Theo looked momentarily shocked, but he seemed to pull it together fast enough to glare at Draco.

"Not from what she told me," he snarled right back, his normally gentle face contorting into an expression of ire. "According to her, she wants nothing to do with you any longer. According to her, you're a selfish wizard who only cares about what _he_ wants. According to her, the two of you are _through_."

His heart sank, sank, sank until it drowned.

_She said that?_

_No. It has to be the—it has to be because she's ill._

_She . . ._

Theo smirked and Draco knew there was no going back from this.

For any of them.

"According to her, she can't wait for the chance to never see you again. She said the worst mistake she's ever made was thinking you were better than _exactly_ who we all know you are."

_A bad son._

_A failure._

_A betrayer._

_A monster._

He didn't know what to say. He was so taken aback by Theo's words that he felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe. It hurt. It hurt _badly_. He knew he'd fucked up, but had he really fucked up _that_ badly? He'd been fighting so hard to keep her alive, to make sure she was okay . . .

_She doesn't want me anymore?_

Had she ever really wanted him at all?

Draco couldn't handle this. He felt like his heart was ripping itself to shreds inside of his chest. It was such a visceral pain that it almost felt like the day of his father's trial. Like if he looked down, he'd see his mother's unseeing eyes, glazed over as they stared up at him.

He actually wanted to cry.

"Exactly," Theo added, slamming his sandwich down. "She's trying to get better, and all you do is make everything about you. She said you disrespected her and broke her trust, and you can't ever seem to put yourself in her shoes for even one moment. Don't act surprised that she wants nothing to do with you anymore."

"Whoa, mate," Blaise said, holding a hand sideways against Theo's chest. He frowned at him. "I don't know what's going on between you two, but that's a little rude, don't you think?"

"I'm only telling him what he needs to hear," Theo spat.

"All right, but you don't know their relationship," Blaise said, actually sounding angry. Draco was grateful for it. "You don't know the conversations they've had or the things they've been through. You can't definitively say someone's not good enough. You're not a god. You don't get to decide."

There was silence, and then Blaise hammered the nail in the coffin.

"I think you should sit somewhere else, mate."

A few moments went by of Blaise and Theo bickering back and forth, but Draco felt like there was cotton in his ears.

He was delusional. He was delusional because Theo was right. Everything was about him. What he wanted. What he felt. His own fears. Even yesterday, his first thought when Hermione had opened up to him was to think " _Just eat!"_ as if it were that simple.

From his point of view, he was doing everything he could to protect her.

From hers? He was wrapping her in chains and stuffing her into a gilded cage.

It felt like someone had crushed his chest beneath a boulder. He couldn't lift his gaze from the table. It was like it was Sixth Year all over again and he was letting himself be ruled by fear.

Maybe the problem wasn't that he wasn't doing enough. Maybe he was doing too much. Maybe he needed to let go of the control, too.

He wasn't soft and he never would be.

_Fuck Hermione._

_Fuck what happens to her._

_Fuck me for believing I mattered to her._

Theo got up and stomped out of the entire Great Hall, lunch forgotten. As things settled down and Blaise continued to ramble his exasperation with Theo, Draco felt something nagging at the back of his mind.

How did Theo know there was something she needed to get better from?


	34. Chapter 34

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Two**

Draco was hurt.

That was the only way he could see it to make it make sense. Because the thought that he'd meant nothing to Hermione all along—the thought that her disorder had just used him as a pawn to keep eating her alive made him physically ill.

Because the disorder was not a living entity. The disorder was a part of her, a poison in her brain that had warped her into a completely new, different person. A person who manipulated people to get what they wanted, as long as it enabled them to keep engaging in behaviors. To keep binging, keep purging, keep chasing that impossible end goal.

But still.

He no longer knew how to interact with her. Not only had he done her wrong by betraying her, but the things she'd said to Theo had hurt him to the core of who he was. They implied things that he had yet to understand. Things that he feared would cause him to snap if she confirmed them.

Things that could bring the old Draco Malfoy back.

They met in front of Trelawney's classroom on Saturday at noon, exactly as scheduled.

Draco wore a pair of denims and an emerald green jumper. His hair had grown out a bit on the top, so shaggy now that he had to periodically scrape it back. The sides, usually shorn down, were still acceptable.

Hermione wore a pair of denims and an oversized knit sweater colored maroon. She'd done her hair at some point between last night and now. The curls were now styled into what looked like fifty or so twists adorned with silver beads. The top half of the twists were pulled up into two buns on top of her head while the others hung down to the small of her back.

He had to look away. Sometimes, her beauty caught him off guard. She was striking.

They hadn't spoken since Thursday night, so the awkwardness was apparent as they lingered outside the door to Trelawney's classroom. Through the window, it was clear the lights were off.

"Did she say when she was coming?" he asked from where he leaned back against the wall with one foot kicked up against it.

"Yes," she said, her gaze drifting up and down his body as though she were wary of him. "She said she would be grabbing lunch in the Great Hall, and then coming up to meet us."

"Ah, okay."

Hermione crossed her arms and leaned her shoulder into the wall on her side of the hall. The smell of her perfume was a bit overwhelming if only because it smelled of gardenias. It made him miss her.

He wished he hadn't fucked up.

"Do you know what she's going to be doing exactly?" Draco asked, unable to take the tension in the silence.

"Yeah," Hermione said through a yawn, not taking her gaze off of the floor. "She's going to cast a special spell that will show her if we have a star bond, and then she's going to help us understand it so we can make our decision properly."

"Huh. Convenient."

"It's not that convenient, actually. It's just the way it works." She glanced at him and then away again. "Most bonding magic is rooted in Divination because you're playing with futures and destinies. It's quite possibly the only sort of Divination I believe to be real. I think the rest of it is codswallop."

"Then why are you taking Advanced Divination?"

"Because I want to give it another shot."

"Why?"

Another sharp glance in his direction. "I don't know. I didn't know what I wanted to take when I came back, so I picked the classes I thought would challenge me the least. Divination was one of them."

"Oh."

"Yes."

He could read her like a book.

Hermione had to be taking Divination because she didn't know what she wanted to do with her future. It was an easy class that she wouldn't have to feel pressured to excel in. She could just breeze through it on her way to graduation.

The future was not a topic that Hermione knew well, especially not her own.

"So . . ." he started.

She shot him an annoyed look. "What?"

"If we find out the bond is real, then what are we gonna do?"

"I'm not sure." She gave him another once-over. "I'd like to ask questions first."

"Okay, but hypothetically, what if the bond is real? Then what would you be the most likely do?"

Hermione shrugged her outward-facing shoulder. "I would discuss our values and ideals, obviously. And then discuss what our plans are for after graduation. Those are the most important. You?"

He rubbed the line of his jaw with the fingers of his right hand. Before he fucked everything up, he would have told her that he didn't care what they did, as long as they stayed together. But things were different. She used to smile at him and now, she could barely look at him without him feeling like she thought he was a horrible person.

Even though he did not regret what he'd done to the Weaselbee, he regretted opening his mouth.

"I agree. Discussions are first priority."

"And the Consummation."

"Yes." His upper lip curled into a sneer. "The fucking."

She flushed and faced the door again. "If we haven't already consummated it."

Memories flashed before his mind's eye. Their encounter on the couch, when she'd begged him to treat her the way she felt inside. When they'd gotten carried away. When he'd said things to her that should have made him feel sick but had only driven him mad with desire.

She was right. There was a possibility that they'd already consummated it. He didn't feel any different, though he supposed that was what Trelawney was for.

"I do apologize for my tardiness!"

Trelawney's voice wafted down the corridor toward them, pulling them out of their otherwise tense conversation. They both looked and saw that the professor was making her way along the small, cramped corridor. She had a plate of food in one hand and a cup in the other. Coming to a stop before them, she lifted her chin so she could peer through her thick glasses at them.

"Exciting day, exciting day," she said, a bit breathless. "I'm sure you two must be jumping at the seams."

They merely stared at her.

Trelawney's smile faltered a bit. "All right. Well, anyway. Follow me inside, and we'll pip on over to my office for a spell."

Draco brought up the rear as they followed the professor's laughter at her own joke into the classroom. They walked down the steps and towards the door at the back of the room, which led to her office.

When they got inside, Trelawney set her food on the desk and waved her wand. The windows shuttered themselves and plunged them into darkness. Then, candlelight flooded the small room from hundreds of lit, floating candles that looked similar to the ones in the Great Hall. Draco glanced around, seeing that bookshelves lined the walls from floor-to-ceiling. There was a lot of clutter as well.

"Go ahead and take your seats, lovelies," Trelawney said around a bite of her sandwich. She gestured to the two cushioned chairs in front of her desk. "I'll take one more bite, and then we can get started. Did you have any questions before I perform the status spell?"

Draco exchanged glances with Hermione, who was already opening her mouth and speaking.

"What exactly is a binary star bond from your perspective as a Divination professor?"

Trelawney chewed her food for a moment, appearing thoughtful.

"Well, I'd say it's a type of destiny-focused marriage bond. It takes the destinies of two separate individuals and attaches them to the fates of two stars that will never be separated. The ritual uses the same runes and ingredients as a traditional marriage bond, with some—obviously—astronomical differences, given that it uses the constellation that the binary star system exists within, amongst other things. But unlike a marriage bond, which can be manipulated and adjusted, binary star bonds are a bit more straightforward. The bond is either strong or brittle, and there is no in-between." She let out a short laugh. "Unfortunately, a traditional divorce won't be in the cards for you with a bond like this."

Draco wondered if Trelawney knew she was the only one who laughed at her jokes.

Hermione cleared her throat. "So, when you perform this spell, what exactly will it tell you?"

"This spell will show me if there if a bond. If there isn't, it will fail. If there is, then I'll be able to see the bond, judge the tenacity of it, and see who created it."

Draco perked up. "You can see the original caster?"

"No," Trelawney said, waving a hand and taking another bite of her sandwich. She chewed for a drawn-out moment, still waving her hand, and then said, "I'll be able to see if the original caster was blood-related or not. Typically, these bonds were put in place by one of the parents of the two magical individuals being betrothed."

"Why did they stop using them?" Hermione asked.

"Well, there's multiple reasons for that. And you know, I have studied this extensively and I _do_ agree with the reasons. But I digress." More chewing. She swallowed. "One reason was because the bonds were virtually unbreakable, so if for some reason one family lost their fortune or changed their circumstances, the bond could not be broken. But the most worrisome reason—and the main reason why the bonds were phased out—is because of the dreamwalking."

That was right. The fact that Hermione and Draco could walk in each other's dreams was the most interesting part of the bond. That he'd been watching her dreams like a film reel for years was an amazing piece of magic, from a wizarding standpoint. It was almost like Legilimency without being a natural Legilimens, or needing to train to hone the ability like Draco had since he was a child.

Though there was something strange about it.

Why did Hermione dream in memories, and Draco dreamed of an entire world?

"With dreams, though they are not real in the tangible sense," Trelawney said, "they are real enough to trap you like quicksand. The reason why Medieval families stopped using star bonds for their betrothals is because all it takes is one decision to be lost forever."

"What decision?" Hermione asked, her hands wringing in her lap.

"The decision to stay." Trelawney gave them a grave look. "As you know, betrothals happened at birth. Children would close their eyes, find each other in dreams, and choose to never wake up. It was—obviously—impractical. For a bond to be virtually unbreakable, but also run the risk of stealing your children away into their own minds before they can even make it to a point where they touch hands to activate the bond? _Completely_ impractical."

" _Virtually_ unbreakable?" Hermione said. "You said that it was virtually unbreakable twice. What would constitute as a danger to the bond?"

Draco forced his gaze to remain trained upon Trelawney, and his face to stay passive. He knew why Hermione was asking that question.

Theo was right. He had to be.

"Mm—yes," Trelawney said, mouth full of food. She held up one finger. "A binary star bond is unbreakable by all conventional and magical means. But it has one weakness."

"And what is that?"

"Itself."

Draco frowned, glancing over at Hermione. She looked confused, too.

Trelawney said, "Let's perform the spell now, and then I can answer more questions. Come, scoot forward. Yes, yes." She reached below her desk and hefted up a rather large gray stone with shiny silver spots, dropping it onto her desk with a loud _thunk._ With her wand, she cast a spell Draco had never heard before. "The stone is activated. Please place your hands upon it. Skin-to-skin."

Draco waited until Hermione had placed her hand upon the crystal, and then he followed suit. He covered her hand with his own, ensuring that his fingertips touched the faces of the rock. The moment his skin touched both hers and the rough stone, he felt magic weaving its way slowly through his body. It started up his arm and filled the cavern of his chest with a cold tingling. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"What is this?" he asked.

Trelawney started to answer, but Hermione beat her to it.

"This is mesosiderite—a type of meteorite. I've read about them in the bonding magic book I checked out from the Library. They are crystals that come from the deepest recesses of space. It's a connection to the stars that we can use to conduct the magic through."

"Think of it like a conduit," Trelawney added. "Bonding magic runs between the two individuals but it can be redirected to pass through a crystal if it's the right kind. Ready?"

Draco and Hermione watched as Trelawney performed the spell. It was another one that Draco had never heard, but it wasn't quick or easy. It seemed to take a great deal of concentration, as well as a slow, intricate twisting of the wand in the air. Draco could feel the magic in his body responding, pulling up out of his magical core as though it were being dragged. He felt like he might start sweating.

Beside him, Hermione let out a small gasp. She seemed to be feeling the effects quite strongly as well.

Finally, when he thought the magic was about to cross over into the territory of unbearable, Trelawney pulled her wand away from the rock and placed it against her temple. She closed her eyes.

"Do not remove your hands from the stone." Her voice sounded mechanical. Emotionless. Her eyes snapped open. They were completely white.

They held their breaths.

"I can see the bond," Trelawney said. "There are cracks running throughout, but nothing that cannot be mended. It is otherwise strong. I can see that one of you is tentative. The other has completely surrendered to the bond."

"Who created it?" Draco asked, the words blurting forth without restraint.

Trelawney frowned, her eyelids narrowing. "The bond's foundation is familial."

Draco sucked in his breath.

A moment later, he felt the magic swimming back down into his core, pulling away from the stone. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding as the spell was severed. Trelawney blinked a few times, and then her eyes returned to their normal color. Her lips twitched up into a quick smile.

"My congratulations to you. It seems that you are indeed bonded to a binary star system."

Draco didn't know how he thought he was going to feel, but he did know that he was unsurprised at the way his heart leapt. It felt like a piece of himself had finally stopped moving around—like it finally knew where it was supposed to be. Or in this case, where it was going to be for the rest of his life. He'd known deep down that the bond was real. To have the confirmation now was as calming as it was a piece of good news.

Hermione was written in his stars.

But when he looked over at her, he didn't see the same blissful recognition that he felt painted on her face. Instead, he saw only the seeds of doubt sowed in her eyes. He knew they'd grow into many things that terrified him: fear, anger, mistrust.

His betrayal.

Though she was written in his, perhaps her sky did not have his constellation.

"Do you know which star system it was?" Hermione asked.

"No, only the original caster would know which star system they chose," Trelawney said. "Do you have any more questions?"

"What happens if one of us dies?" Draco said, running an anxious hand through his hair. "We read that if one of us dies, then so does the other. Are we connected in that way?"

Trelawney laughed. "No, my dear. That is a myth. A popular one, at that. All death does is sever a bond, which rings true for all bonding magic. It's just that with other types of bonds, there are ways to break them that don't involve death. With a binary star bond, the bond can only break itself, or be severed in death."

What did she mean by " _break itself_?" How could a star bond break itself?

Unless it was metaphorical.

Unless only Draco and Hermione themselves had the power to break the bond.

_But how?_

Wait.

If death was a myth . . . Then that meant that if she died, he'd live.

He could lose her and have to exist in a world where she didn't.

"I want to ask more about the dreams," Hermione said after glancing at Draco again. "You said that back then, children were getting lost in dreams. Was that only the children? Did any adolescents make it to the Consummation and the completion of the bond?"

"Yes, many did, just not as many as they'd hoped." Trelawney grimaced through a nervous laugh. "The issue with dreamwalking is that it can be very tempting to simply _stay_ in a world with no pain or torment. A world where you never tire, hunger, or bore. For a child, that seems like a heaven and before the bond's completion, your dreams will pull you towards one another with a vengeance.

"But once you reach the Consummation—once the bond is completed—the dreams' ferocity will subside. They will go from being heavens to becoming sanctuaries. You won't be lost. You'll be able to choose if you want to be in one another's dreams or not. To control it. Right now, the bond controls you because its drawing you together."

As she kept speaking, Draco found that his gaze was being tugged in Hermione's direction. His dreams felt like a type of heaven where they truly could live in peace. Becoming lost in there sounded enticing. Dancing by the sea and playing in the grass. Seeing her smile reach her eyes as the breeze played through her braids. Lying in gardenias underneath an emerald sky with silver stars.

He could see why that was a problem.

"What about nightmares?" Hermione asked, her voice a bit louder than a whisper. "I took a—drank a tea a month ago, and he was able to walk through a recurring nightmare of mine. A memory. Can we get lost in those?"

"No, not in a nightmare. But they can affect the strength of the bond. The tea you took—it likely only made you drop your guard. Once your guard dropped, you let him in."

"But when I passed out, so did he."

Trelawney's brows pulled together as she looked from one to the other, and then realization dawned on her.

"I do remember that day." She tapped her chin. "Star bonds are very strong. They cannot be the death of you, but there are times when you will feel what the other feels. Also . . ." She turned in her chair and went to one of her shelves. She rummaged through the clutter, pulled open a chest, stared into it, nodded, and then shut the chest. Returning to her seat, she smiled at them. "That day was a full moon. I'm willing to bet it was in the constellation that contains the star system you are bonded to. Just a rare side effect of the strength of the bond before Consummation."

"Okay," Hermione said. "About the dreams . . . He's never been in my dreams. Only my nightmares. But I have been inside his dreams. What does that mean?"

Trelawney rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and her chin in her hand. Her expression looked a bit troubled. "That means you have a pain that has reached through the cracks I saw in the bond. It's overpowering the bond in some sense and keeping him out. You'll have to overcome that pain."

Hermione's head dropped, her fingers fidgeting with one another in her lap. "What if I can't?"

"Then you'll have to let him in."

As if on cue, Draco and Hermione looked at one another. In her eyes, he saw her fear and the hurt that he had caused. His heart ached for her and for the way he had ruined everything. His failure with not only her, but his mother. The monster that he was for ignoring his father. He saw it all reflected back at him.

He hated himself.

"You see," Trelawney went on, "dreams come from stardust and they change according to the feelings in your heart. They shift so often that if you're not careful, you can become trapped in the light. However, nightmares come from dark places that are etched in stone. They replay over and over, tormenting the soul and the psyche. A nightmare can pull you in, but it cannot trap you—you can always escape if you want to because the entrance never changes. The exit may change, but there will always be a route."

Draco curved his hands over his kneecaps. "Is it possible to walk her nightmare and influence it, but not change it?"

"Yes," she answered. "In fact, it's the only thing possible. You cannot enter a nightmare and change the course of events. A star bond grants you access to what is already possible—a dream, a nightmare, a memory, a future. But nightmares are messages from your soul; dreams are indulgences of your heart."

"How do you know that our bond isn't already consummated?" Hermione asked, sounding nervous.

Draco felt his cheeks warming at the memory.

Trelawney gave her a confused look. "You don't know if you . . . ? Never mind." A wave of her hand. "It was not consummated. I could see it in the bond."

Sadness pulled Draco's face downward.

As if she would choose him _now_.

"Can it be reversed at all before the Consummation?" Hermione asked, her words a bit hesitant. As if she wasn't sure. As if she didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Yes," Trelawney said, "but only by the original caster. Once the bond is consummated, you will no longer have the chance. But be wary. If you forge this bond in anything other than strength, it will destroy itself and fail."

Draco exchanged glances with Hermione.

What did that mean?

"I think that's all I had questions about," Hermione said, standing up. "Draco? Did you have any?"

"Nah. I know everything I need to know now."

He felt like he couldn't look her in the eyes. He stood up and followed her to the door, where he reached out to push on the door above her head as she turned the knob. Her back brushed against his frontside.

Trelawney clapped her hands together once. "When you consummate the bond, be sure to go to the Ministry and register. You know how the Ministry feels about taxes."

Hermione stopped, turning to look around Draco's arm at their professor. Draco glanced over his shoulder, too. "Register? Register what?"

Trelawney smiled from behind the rim of her cup.

"Your marriage, Miss Granger."

When they were halfway down the stairwell, Hermione finally spoke. She stopped walking, turning to look up at him with a worried expression.

"Who bonded us?"

"You don't have any magical family members," he said, a hushed statement, as though someone might come up the stairwell at lunch on a Saturday.

"No."

He felt his heart beginning to race. "I only have two living family members, and have since I was a child. My last relative was Abraxas Malfoy, and he passed long before I started at Hogwarts."

"Then what can we do?"

Draco knew what they could do. Oh, he knew what they could do, and he knew that it was exactly the thing he didn't want to do. It was something that filled him with a fear so violent and arresting that he lost his breath at the thought.

He placed his hands on the wall on either side, absentmindedly scuffing the toe of his boot on the step beneath him. His head hung as though he were on a crucifix.

It sort of felt like he was.

"We'll have to speak to my father."

* * *

It wasn't something they could do in a letter.

After returning to the common room to get their coats and send Potter an emergency letter, they had headed to McGonagall's office to use the Floo. After a vague explanation that it was just for a Saturday outing, she'd acquiesced, though the suspicion in her eyes had been apparent.

Apparently, the school gossip had reached her and she knew they had some sort of situationship.

Now, they stood in the Ministry's entrance hall, waiting for Potter to come and retrieve them. They were to be taken up to the Auror Department, where guards from Azkaban were Portkeying Lucius into a secure visitation office.

Draco was nervous. _Beyond_ nervous.

To go from stuffing his father's unread letters into a chest of bitterness on his dresser, to writing him to selfishly ask for help for a domestic issue, to now pulling him out of his cell for a visitation? He wasn't sure how to feel. Guilty or scared.

Both.

He felt like it was a bit more than nerves. Ever since he'd received the letter response back from his father on Thursday, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the fact that his father had been struggling to write. That he'd very clearly signed the letter " _your father_ " when Draco hadn't even had the respect to sign his " _your son_."

The self-hatred was so overwhelming that for a moment, Draco wondered if he was feeling a fraction of the pain Hermione felt.

But in the next moment, he reminded himself how selfish it was to think that. That only made him feel worse. The reason why things were so tense between he and Hermione was _because_ he was selfish. The reason why he hadn't read his father's letters was because he _was_ selfish.

He was _selfish_ , and he deserved this anxiety.

The Ministry was mostly-empty on a Saturday, which Draco was glad for. Their short notice trip had all but guaranteed them to be able to arrive without any of the press being notified. He wasn't sure about Hermione, but he knew he couldn't enter the Ministry for even one second without reporters for the various magical magazines and newspapers accosting him to find out what he was doing since his mother died.

Whereas Draco was on the verge of sweating, Hermione looked almost irritated. Her arms were crossed over the breast of her dress coat. By the way she was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she was impatient.

Was she that eager to find out if she could be rid of him?

At exactly four in the afternoon, the lift doors opened.

Potter strolled out, wearing casual clothing. He waved to Hermione, but his smile seemed strained.

"I told you I was here for you," he said to Hermione after a quick embrace, "not that you could use me for favors."

"This favor is detrimental," Hermione said, grimacing. "Thank you for making this possible."

"Well, it's not that he can't have visitation," Potter said, glancing over her shoulder, up at Draco. "It's just that you're supposed to fill out an official form. Typically, it's supposed to be for proven special occasions such as a birthday, meeting a child or grandchild, or a marriage."

"How did you manage it?" Draco asked.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Potter's expression was deadpan. "I'm Harry Potter. Your father was here in less than an hour, mate."

Draco swallowed.

Hermione cleared her throat and said, "It shouldn't be a long conversation. Can you take us to him?"

They followed Potter to the lift. Hermione stood in the center and reached up to hold a strap, staring at the doors. Potter leaned his shoulder against one wall with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Draco leaned back against the wall with one foot on it behind him. He slipped his hand into his hair and rubbed his eyes with the heel of that palm. Neither boy held a strap.

Potter yawned and glanced at Draco. "I'm exhausted. This week has me knackered. A lot of work to do."

 _I'll bet_ , Draco thought, glancing back at him out of the corner of his eye. "Why pick a Ministry job if you don't like to work, Potter? I wasn't aware laziness was one of your character traits."

The corner of Potter's mouth lifted. "I was aware it was one of yours."

The lift lurched, causing Hermione to stumble. She careened backward off balance even though she had a hold of a strap. Without looking up from the floor, Draco's hand found her lower back and pushed her upright again.

She looked back at him for a moment before quickly averting her eyes.

"If you're knackered," Hermione said, "then you need to be getting more sleep."

"I get plenty of sleep," Potter countered. "It's just been a late work week. I'm tracking a suspect."

Draco and Potter's gazes met.

They looked away.

"I'm happy to see you're settling in so well," Hermione said as the lift shuddered to a stop. "I was concerned when I heard they were skipping you out of the training program."

"You didn't believe in me?" Potter asked through a grin.

"It's not that I didn't believe in you," she replied, and Draco could hear her smiling, too. "It was that I was worried you'd find some way to break the rules in the first week and get sacked."

" _Oh!"_ Potter cried, holding a fist to his mouth and laughing. Even Draco smirked. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hermione, you little brat!"

They filed after him out of the lift and into the Auror Department. It was a bit fuller in the cubicles here, but most of the Aurors seemed busy working on their paperwork. Draco kept his head down, itching his temple with one finger in the hopes that he could stick out less. After Aurors had handled him and his family so roughly during the trials, he wasn't exactly comfortable around them.

Potter led them down a hallway that seemed to stretch for miles. The doors all looked exactly the same, but he seemed to know exactly which one to stop at. He tugged up his jumper sleeve and presented his palm. Then, he drew it back.

"Are you both ready?" he asked. "Once your inside, I'll have to seal you in. You'll have exactly thirty minutes."

Draco felt a bit relieved. He'd been worried they'd have to sit there for hours.

"I'm ready," Hermione said, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Are you, Draco?"

He nodded, finding that his throat felt too constricted to say anything. His knees felt weak and his palms clammy. He wished he could reach for her or hold her hand. Anything. Anything at all.

_Why did I have to fuck everything up?_

His father was right on the other side of that door. He didn't know what he was going to look like, how hurt he'd be, or what look would be in his eyes. Draco only knew that the time had come. There was no going back now. No more avoiding. No more running from his problems.

This was for Hermione.

Potter placed his palm flat against the center of the blank door. Something activated, a rune that glowed red appearing above his fingers. It pulsed three times, and then there was a _click_.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

_Anything. I wish I could have something, anything. I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe. I can't—_

"Draco?"

Draco tore his panicked gaze away from the floor and looked up to see both Potter and Hermione staring at him. Hermione looked concerned.

"Are you all right?"

He said nothing. Just looked at her.

Potter turned, keeping his hand against the door so the rune wouldn't fade. "I don't know what conversation you two need to have with him, but you don't have to do this if you're not ready, mate."

Draco took a deep breath. "I'm fine. I can—I'm fine."

Hermione bit her lower lip, and he saw it flickering across her face. The indecision. The hurt. The betrayal.

Resignation.

Her fingers sought his out, sliding between them and curling upward. Holding his hand.

He exhaled.

"This is for us," she murmured, though he could tell Potter had heard. "So we can make the right decision."

"So we can make the right decision," he repeated.

She squeezed his hand and nodded. "The right decision for our future."

He nodded, and it felt like a gavel striking the surface of his fate.

_You are the right decision, Hermione. Why can't you see that?_

_Why don't you want me?_

"Ready?" Potter said.

"Yes," Hermione said, her hand slipping out of Draco's. "We are."

_Please don't say "we." Don't say "us."_

_You're making this harder._

Potter opened the door.

Draco kept his gaze cast downward as he followed Hermione into the small, white-walled room. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them inside for the allotted thirty minutes. His heart raced so fast that he felt faint. If it weren't for the back of her head pressing against his chest, he might have pitched forward.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," she said.

_I can't breathe. This is too hard. I shouldn't have—_

"Hello, Miss Granger." He felt his eyes on him, boring holes into his downturned face. "Hello, son."

_Thirty minutes. It's just thirty. I can do this. I can do this._

Draco lifted his eyes.

"Hello, father."

Lucius Malfoy sat in a chair wearing the pale grey-and-white Azkaban uniform. In front of him was a wooden table that had no other chairs. The entire room was as white as his hair had turned. His hair, which was stringy and hung in scraggly ropes to his elbows. His skin was as pale as a sheet, with a sickly-green tinge to it. His eyes seemed to have sunken deep into the hollows of his face, the bags under them dark and prominent. His mouth appeared situated into a permanent frown.

His hands, wrists wrapped in iron manacles with runes inscribed on them, shook with a violence that looked almost painful.

Draco almost looked away, the sight of the shaking clicking into place as an answer for the heartbreakingly-messy letter his father had sent.

What did the other letters look like?

"You don't seem surprised to see us here," Hermione said, standing to the right of Draco, who stood slightly behind her. "Together."

"I am not." His tone was weary and more than a bit clipped. When he looked at Hermione, it was like he was viewing her through a haze of grey fog.

"Then you know why we are here," she replied. "We only have thirty minutes."

"What would you like to know?"

"I'm cutting to the quick," Hermione said. "We know we're bonded. We know the bonding spell was cast by someone in one of our families. All of my living family members are Muggle. Was it you?"

"Yes."

Draco was taken aback, but he stayed silent.

"You? Or Narcissa?" Hermione asked.

"It was my wife," Lucius said. "I assisted her with the ritual portion, and with erasing my son's memories afterward."

"Why?"

Lucius pursed his lips. It seemed like he was trying to either decide what to say, or how to condense it to fit in their small time frame.

"I knew that the Dark Lord had plans to return. I knew that was always his plan. It wasn't until after Draco's Second Year that I realized that he had a possible opponent in Harry Potter. It made me doubt the Dark Lord's dream of a future, and that made my us nervous. My wife used Dark magic to perform a matchmaking spell on Draco during the Summer before his Third Year. She found all potential magical matches and sifted through them until she found one that would provide the best protection. That person was a convenience that could only have been written in the stars. That person was you, Hermione Granger."

Beside him, Draco heard Hermione suck her breath in. Lucius went on.

"We knew that if the Dark Lord won the war, then we would have nothing to worry about. However, if the Dark Lord lost, we would need assurance that our son would be safe. We knew we couldn't save ourselves, but we could save him. It was the only way to assure his survival if we chose the wrong side."

He paused.

"My wife thought that a binary star bond was our best option. It was nigh unbreakable and if he were bonded to you in a way that would kill you if they hurt him, or if he got hurt during the war that was sure to come, they would be forced to spare or save his life. In the instance that the Dark Lord won, we could simply ensure your survival, Miss Granger, long enough for my wife to reverse the bond.

"When he came home for Christmas of his Third Year, we woke him in the middle of the night to perform the ritual. Since the two of you didn't get along, we knew it would be years before you ever got close enough to one another to activate the bond. Knowing that the Dark Lord was aching to start planning his acquiescence of a human form, we thought it best to perform it as soon as possible."

"Wait," Hermione interjected. "How could you perform a spell as life-altering as that without me present? How could it possibly work?"

"When using Dark magic to cast bonding spells, many rules become nonexistent."

Hermione frowned. Draco stared at her face from the side so he wouldn't have to look at his father. "Which star system did you bind us to?"

"Sirius, in Canis Major."

"Well, you were wrong about one thing," Hermione said. "We got close to each other in Third Year, right at the end of the year. It activated the bond. There was some delay on my part because I was less open to it than he, but it was inevitable."

Draco desperately hoped she didn't tell his father that she'd punched him. He told his father everything when he was younger, but he'd left that part of his year out.

"Then, is the bond complete?" Lucius asked, tone carefully nonchalant.

"Not yet," Hermione answered.

There was a lull in the conversation. A lull that increased Draco's discomfort. He could feel his father staring at him. He was going to speak. He was going to speak and say something to him and talk to him and—

"She would have done anything for you, son. She _did_ do everything for you." Draco felt Lucius' eyes on him, but he kept his sights set on the pristine white walls. "You may not ever forgive me for doing this, but I hope you will forgive her."

"Do you say that because I'm Muggle-born," Hermione said, "and you want to apologize to him for trapping him with me?"

"No," Lucius said. "I say it because I want to apologize for taking his choice away. But I want to assure you—the bond does not force feelings or emotions. We did not want to trap you in a prison. The bond merely ensures that you will never be apart from someone who can complete you. If you were not a proper match for him, the ritual would never have worked. If you fall in love, then it is real."

_How did he know?_

_How does he fucking know?_

"It was a myth, you know," Hermione said with a somewhat haughty sniff.

"What?"

Hermione said, "The bond does not connect our life forces. If I die, he lives. If he dies, I live. Though the intention was there, you would not have succeeded."

Lucius said nothing, but he didn't have to. It was clear that he had not known about the myth either. Draco didn't think it mattered.

His mother had risked everything to save his future. His father had gone against everything he believed to ensure his safety. His parents had fought for him long before there was anything to fight for. And Draco had fought for his mother every time he sat on that bottom step of the stairs and listened to his mother binge so she wouldn't be alone when she was in pain.

Their family was broken, but the pieces were as strong as stone.

"I think that's everything we needed to know," Hermione said. "None of what you did was morally right or legal, but I think the fact that you're sitting over there is proof enough that you understand that."

"Would it help you if I were to apologize?"

"There's nothing to apologize for, and nothing more to say. Draco, it's time to go."

It was clear that Hermione was either angry or conflicted. Possibly both. Finding out that her future was chosen for her against her will long before she ever had the chance to realize it or do anything to stop it wasn't that much different than doing something horrible to her without her consent. She already had such a hard time accepting who she was in the life she lived in. People were making choices for her body, something that was supposed to be _hers_ to make choices for.

Draco realized now that even if he'd completely surrendered to her, he had to let her come to him. He had to apologize to her for telling her secret to the Weaselbee, and he had to make things right. That way, if what Theo had said was true, he could figure out how to change her opinion of him.

They reached the door. Draco vibrated with the desire to leave the room so he could breathe. He knew he should be proud of himself for facing this—for facing his pain—but it was overwhelming. It was so overwhelming that his throat ached. He just wanted to leave so he could take a fucking second to remember how to _function_.

Hermione stopped, then turned to face his father.

"What is the reason for your shaking?" she asked, turning to face his father. She glanced up at Draco's face once. "Do you know?"

"I do." Lucius answered without missing a beat. "They are Cruciatus tremors."

Hermione's face contorted into an expression of horror. "Are you not being treated?"

"No."

"They can't do that." She glared up at Draco. "According to Article Three of the 1967 Azkaban Prison Accords, all prisoners must receive medical treatment monthly. It's standard. If the prisoner is found to be grievously unwell with an illness or wound, they are entitled to ongoing treatment. I can't remember the rest, but . . . I'm sure of this."

"They can do whatever they'd like when you've got no one to fight for you, Miss Granger," Lucius said, his chains rattling against the table from the force of his trembling.

"There's always someone who will fight for you, Mr. Malfoy. If they won't, then _I_ will."

It was like a glimpse in the fog.

The old Hermione.

It was beautiful.

There was a knock. It had been thirty minutes. Their time was up.

As Hermione brushed past him to go to the door, Draco knew what he had to do. If he couldn't speak to his father, then he could at least look at him. He could give him something of himself to keep him warm.

Lucius' gaze cut through the air to meet his.

The span of one broken heartbeat passed, and just like that, Draco felt like he was back in the courtroom. Like the Aurors were hauling his father away and they were locking eyes one final time. Like his mother's dead body was still being carried out of the room by the Healers. Like the Wizengamot was still screaming for order in the courtroom while the attendees screamed. Back then, he'd felt like he was staring a lonely future right in the face. Back then, he'd felt like a star, alone in the darkness as it shone for no one.

He feared going back to that loneliness.

They exited into the hallway. Draco didn't look behind him. The door shut with another _click_ , and Potter reapplied the runic barrier. Then, he led them down the hall. Hermione's twists swung as she waved her hands about and began to rant.

"Harry, I'd like to lodge a formal complaint against the guards at Azkaban. They aren't giving Lucius Malfoy the medical treatment he is entitled to. Because they have unlawfully kept him from his legally-sanctioned monthly physicals, his Cruciatus tremors have progressed to muscular tremors. And for Merlin's sake, he looks abhorrent. He _really_ looks abhorrent. I want him to be given three _full_ meals per day and I want you personally to go to his cell and check to ensure that he's got books, a blanket and pillow, and that his cell receives permanent heat. I'm not playing with you, Harry Potter. If you don't . . ."

Draco tuned her out as he followed them. Not intentionally. It was difficult to focus when he wanted to cry as badly as he wanted to kiss her.

Was he a bad person for being happy that they couldn't reverse the bond?

"Hermione, I promise you," Potter said, holding her by the shoulders. "I promise you that I will handle everything."

She glowered at him, her facial expression stern. "I'm going to check on this. He may be a prisoner, but he's an old man and he's going to be my—Just . . . Please don't let him suffer anymore. It's not right."

Potter narrowed his eyes, momentarily looking at Draco. Draco tried not to give anything away.

He wasn't going to tell another one of her secrets.

"I'll file the report and then I'll go there myself," Potter said.

" _Tonight."_

"Tonight."

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck and embraced him. They said their goodbyes, Draco giving him a curt nod, and then they entered the lift. Potter remained behind in the Auror Department, waving as the doors shut.

The silence settled over them, thick and viscous as tar.

Draco still felt like he was suffocating.

The lift bell rung and it began to move. Draco leaned back against the wall again but this time, Hermione took the spot next to him, her hands pressing flat to the lift wall by her rear. He felt her eyes on him.

"Why haven't you gone to see him before now?" she asked.

He closed his eyes. He couldn't lie to her. He could never lie to her.

"Because I want him to suffer the way I will."

Her fingers sought his hand. Wrapped around it as though she were trying to lead him down a path. Which he supposed she had been leading him down a path for weeks. A path that he hoped ended in eternity.

"You won't suffer forever," she said. "I promise."

He held it together while they walked out of the lift with her hand wrapped around his. He held it together while they stepped into the Floo and out into McGonagall's office. He held it together while they thanked the Headmistress, who was at the desk reading a parchment, and he held it together while they descended the twisting staircase to the corridor.

He held it together until he couldn't anymore.

When they rounded the corner into another empty, quiet corridor, he stopped walking. He was trying to hold his seams together, trying to keep it all from spilling out. His fear, grief, pain, and the sheer intensity of being in a room with the father he'd tried to disown. The father who'd never stopped being his father, even though Draco had tried to stop being his son. Standing there in the center of the corridor, he looked down at her.

Draco could feel his eyes burning.

Hermione's puzzled look faded into one of understanding. It spelled sympathy in the way her brows met.

"Draco," she said, her soft voice seeming to become swallowed up by the emptiness in the hall. "She was trying to protect you. It wasn't about me. It was always about you."

His chin began to tremble. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to stop feeling like vines were wrapped around his throat. He wanted to stop feeling so frightened of losing everything, even if his everything was Hermione.

He wanted to cry.

"She was trying . . ." She took a step closer to him and placed her hand flat on the center of his chest. He wondered if she could feel his heart beating a tattoo against the inside of the bone. ". . . To protect you."

Why was she so blurry?

He closed his eyes. A hand pressed to his cheek. It was cold, but it filled him with a warmth that chased away the last of his faculties. His inhaled sharply through his teeth.

The first tear fell.

"Draco," she said, and her other hand reached up to cup his other cheek. "Look at me."

He obeyed, holding a whimper in a cage in his chest. The sincerity in Hermione's eyes was something he'd only ever seen in his dreams. It was the same sincerity she'd had when she was lying in the gardenias, looking up at him with the trust that she had only shared with him.

It all came rushing up.

His mother. Hermione's disorder. His father's tremors. Paris. The mistakes that he'd made. The mistakes he would inevitably make because he couldn't stop fucking things up. The way he'd hurt her. The way he'd hurt his father. His broken friendship with Theo. Everything, everything, everything.

He was trying so hard to fix it all but it seemed like no matter how hard he tried, it kept spilling out of his arms.

Everything, everything, everything was falling apart.

Hermione rose up onto the tips of her toes, wrapped her arms gently around his neck, and pressed her lips against his ear. When she spoke, though her tone was a whisper, it barreled through his body with all the force of a shooting star.

"Your mother _loved_ you."

Draco fell into shambles, his pieces scattering like dust across the cosmos. Those pieces fluttered across the landscape of his wounded heart, pulling sobs out of him that wracked his entire body. He dropped his head into the crook of her neck as his arms wrapped around her waist in a bruising grip. He wept so hard that it would be humiliating if anyone walked by, yet he didn't have the energy to care if anyone did.

He leaned into Hermione. Physically. Metaphorically. Emotionally. And she held him. She held him with what little of herself she could give him, and it was more treasured to him than a diamond. He knew that no matter what happened between them—whether she learned to trust him again or now—he would cherish this moment.

Because he was falling for her.

When the emotions retreated back into the box he liked to keep them safe in, he pulled back. He moved his hand towards his cheek, preparing to wipe them, but Hermione's fingers beat him to it. They swiped beneath his eyelashes, which he could feel clinging together. He knew he must look red in the face and splotchy, but he didn't care.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded, his throat too raw.

"I think we should go to Hogsmeade," Hermione said, her hands wrapped around his biceps. Her expression was serious.

"Yeah?" he said, his voice cracked and raspy. He sniffled.

"Will you come with me?"

"Yeah," he breathed, his gaze falling to her lips.

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve a kiss. She wouldn't allow it. Not after what he'd done.

But he was already walking her backward towards the wall.

"Do you want to come with me?" she whispered, her head tilting back as they reached the stones. Her eyelids fluttered as his hands came up to hold her jaw with the sides of his forefingers and the pads of his thumbs.

"Yeah."

He dropped his lips to hers, soft yet heated. His head turned first to the left side, then to the right, his eyes opening to give her a smoldering look that she returned. Their lips met again, their tongues mutually agreeing to greet each other in her mouth.

_Everything, everything, everything._

She was his everything.

Hermione moaned into his mouth, kissing him back slowly. The strokes of her tongue were languorous in the way they rose to meet his. Her hands clenched in the sleeves of his coat, twisting tight as she fought to stay on her toes.

Draco dominated the kiss in a way that showed her not only his gratitude for letting him break down, but his desire for her and the way that it would never abate. He wanted her to know that even though he hadn't had the choice either, he was choosing her now.

He would always choose her.

Finally, he pulled back, his gaze flitting up and down her face as he took in the sight of her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The way she panted slightly. The way she trembled in his arms.

The way she fit against him, like she completed the parts of him that were missing.

"What do you want to discuss?" he asked.

"Our future."


	35. Chapter 35

**This chapter includes descriptions of racist experiences I had when I was in elementary school. It's only a couple of the experiences I had, but 1 is too many. This will be triggering for my fellow mixed and Black readers. The second story of what happened to me, I mentioned him by name but I changed his name for legal/privacy reasons.**

**I also want to forewarn you that even though she shares this part of her past with Draco, it's not enough to mend their fences. The spiral is inevitable. I'm sorry.**

**TRIGGER: the word 'Negro' is referenced in a derogatory way because Hermione is sharing a piece of her past (that is also a piece of mine).**

**Please remember that I am Black and this was MY personal experience that happened to ME.**

**There is also a raunchy, triggering smut scene with a glimpse of toxic Draco. If it offends you, you better just turn back now.**

* * *

** Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Three **

The Three Broomsticks was fairly full, with only two tables free for Draco and Hermione to choose from.

Most of the patrons were locals, but since it was Saturday, there were quite a few student groups smattered across the restaurant. The locals paid them no mind; the students watched them enter the building as though it were the most fascinating entrance they'd ever seen.

Were they wary of him for Hermione's sake? Were they just gossips who liked to watch things that surprised them or gave them something to talk about? Or were they only invested because Hermione had threatened to slap him in the Great Hall?

After learning what they'd learned in Trelawney's office, they really needed to figure out how they were going to navigate this. What had once already been a few twisting strings was now a tangled mass of countless chains that needed to be picked apart until it made sense.

As awkward as things were, Draco knew they needed to have this discussion. Trelawney had made it crystal clear that they _were_ bonded and that they were hurtling toward the Consummation with all the speed of the Hogwarts Express. And now that they knew that his mother was the one who'd bonded them, he was certain that it was a strong, solid bond. Since she wasn't there to fix this, that meant that it was irreversible.

Before, that would have made him happy. Now, he just felt conflicted.

According to Theo, Hermione wanted to reverse the bond. That implied an "if possible." It wasn't possible. So, now what?

Why would he want to want someone who didn't want him?

Why, when he could simply . . . Turn his emotions off to her? When he could just choose to feel nothing when he looked into her eyes, and wipe his thoughts when he saw her hurting?

He couldn't stop thinking about the way it had felt to break down for the first time in front of Hermione. How it felt to let all of his walls down and finally just let her see the parts of himself that he'd been hiding.

What if her comfort had been false? What if compassion had taken over and spurred her to embrace him? To hold him while he wept? To kiss him the way she had?

Yes, he'd betrayed her. But hadn't she been betraying him all along? Leading him on to believe she might have changed her mind?

Trelawney had also said that though their bond had cracks, they could be mended. It was still strong. If they talked, maybe they could work through it. He _wanted_ to work through it. Neither of them had done anything unforgivable.

He hoped.

Draco's hand lingered on Hermione's lower back as they followed the waitress to the table. His fingers hovered an inch or so away from her form, similar to the way his heart felt. Like there was a layer of space that had tricked them into thinking it was impenetrable.

They took their seats, ordered their food, and stared at each other.

Her eyes seemed guarded, closed off to him in a way they hadn't been before. It was different than the beginning of the year, when they simply didn't know one another. Different than the previous years, when they didn't like each other because of his bullying.

It was like she'd closed a door that had once been wide open.

"I suppose we shouldn't waste time mincing words," she said after a tense silence. "We're bonded. That's not debatable anymore. This means we need to discuss what we're going to do."

"All right." Draco leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what do you wanna do?"

She picked up her napkin, folding it and refolding it into different shapes. Her gaze darted around the restaurant, settling on person after person. "I think we should make plans for our future."

 _Our_.

"Okay. What did you have planned before this?"

Her gaze snapped to his for a moment and then away again. "You already know. I didn't have anything planned, remember?"

Oh, yes. That was right. Paris. The conversation at the pub table. She'd been overwhelmed by all of their questions about her plans for the future because she didn't know what she wanted to do.

For a moment, he forgot about how fucked up everything was.

"Well, I get access to the Malfoy family accounts either when I turn twenty-one or when I ask my father for early permissions. So, it's not as though you'd need to worry about a career in the financial sense. You could do something purely because you enjoy it."

She nodded, her lips twisting as she bit the inside of her cheek. Then, she frowned.

"Wait . . . If you don't have access now, then does that mean you don't have money?"

He pursed his lips. "I have some, but it's rationed to last me."

Her frown lines deepened. "You can't just ask your father?"

"I haven't spoken to him outside of today's visitation in . . ." He trailed off, realizing that what he was about to say would be a lie. He had spoken to him. He'd sent him that letter. The letter that had gotten him the response that showed him that his father wasn't doing well. The one that showed him that even though Lucius wasn't doing well, he'd forced himself to try just so he could help his son.

A violent, shuddering desire to burst into tears again crashed into him.

Draco shifted in his seat, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. "I don't need to rely on my father for anything. If I can't learn how to survive on a normal amount of money, then I'll blow through the accounts without learning how to properly manage them. My father had the choice to help our family grow, and he chose the path of fear. I don't plan to do that."

She raised an eyebrow. "What will you do?"

Draco hadn't told anyone this before. He barely thought about his plans because they were so set into the stone of his foundation. He wanted to think it was nice to tell her, but this entire conversation was set against a backdrop of impending destruction.

They hadn't even approached the topic of his betrayal yet.

"Start a company of some sort," he said. "I'm taking Muggle Studies because I want to come up with some way to blend the magical and Muggle worlds." When he saw the look on her face, he held up a hand. "Don't freak out. I don't mean for Muggles to know about our world. I want to create a company that can do business with Muggle companies."

"What sort of business?" She began to tear absentmindedly at the napkin. "Law or advertising or . . . ?"

"I'm not sure yet," he said. "That's where I'm still thinking about it. I have plenty of money to take my time, though. As long as I figure something out before I die to make sure my children have something to take care of them."

The silence afterward was once again awkward.

"Draco . . ." She looked contrite. "I'm sorry, but I don't want children."

"Oh." He hadn't ever really thought about whether or not he wanted them. He had grown up assuming he'd someday have a child. But to hear Hermione flat-out tell him she wasn't interested, knowing they were going to be in each other's lives forever, it was a bit shocking. "Can I ask why?"

The napkin tore in half. "I just don't want them."

He studied her. There was a panic on her face that he recognized. The same sort of panic she had when she was facing food she didn't want to eat.

"Do you not want children . . ." he asked slowly, leaning forward a bit and lowering his voice. ". . . Or do you think they won't want you?"

Her gaze slammed into his again, wide and terrified. For a moment, her eyes looked glassy. Then, she blinked and looked away again.

"It's okay when women don't want children, Draco. We aren't broken just because we don't want them. Do you want children?"

"Well, I—" He cut himself off. "If I don't have children, the Malfoy line dies with me."

"Do you _want_ them?"

". . . Not really. It's just what I'm expected to do."

"Then there you go."

The waitress appeared, floating their food over and setting it down before them. Hermione was staring at her pasta with a disturbed look, as though she already regretted it, so Draco thanked the waitress by himself. When the witch pranced off to another table, he looked at Hermione again.

 _Really_ looked at her.

She looked miserable.

"There's nothing wrong with not wanting children," he said, "but what's the real reason why you don't want them? This conversation is supposed to be about the future— _our_ inevitable future. We need to discuss these things."

Hermione picked up her fork and swirled pasta around it until she finally spoke.

"I would be a horrific mother," she said. "I'm uncomfortable around children and I'm envious of them. I feel like I never got to have the picture-perfect childhood with friends and play dates and just . . ." She sighed and tipped her head back. Then, she looked at him and her eyes were sad. "It's hard to talk about."

"Talk about it anyway."

She hesitated. "It's hard to talk about it with you. Like, specifically."

Draco nodded slowly and took a bite of his food but said nothing.

Finally, she conceded.

"Before I came to Hogwarts, I wasn't exactly accepted. And please don't get angry when I tell you this, but . . . I've experienced a lot of bullying for my skin color and my hair. When I was a little girl, I went to Muggle primary school until I got my Hogwarts letter. I didn't have any friends. I hid in the Library because whenever I went outside during breaks, they'd say hurtful things about how my hair looked like a clown's. Or that I was ugly because I 'looked dirty.'"

Draco felt his heart beginning to sink in his chest.

She continued.

"When I was little, I was really extroverted. I tried again and again to make friends. I didn't seem to understand that the reason why everyone was so mean to me was because they didn't like me. When I was eight, I did manage to get invited to a girl's birthday party in my school, but when her mother found out who I was, she told her . . ."

Hermione stopped, her brows twitching together and her throat jumping. She set her fork down.

"She told the girl to tell me I couldn't come. When I asked her why, she said her mother told her not to tell me, but that it was because I was Black. She didn't . . . She thought I would steal from their home. I went home and asked my mother why she would say that, and she had to explain to me that it was something that she'd had to face, too. That there are people out there who make up their minds about us based upon years of prejudice, and that it's likely to never get better. That we just have to try our best to be strong."

Draco set his fork down, too. He felt his stomach churning.

"When I was ten," she said, voice soft, "I had a crush on a boy named Ross. I told him I fancied him and he told me that he could never fancy a—and I still feel confused by this—a 'spotted Negro.' I told the headmaster, and was made to stand there while Ross gave me a false apology with a smirk on his face. The headmaster forced me to say I forgave him. And then he forced me to give him a hug. I never told my mother about that one."

Draco didn't know how to process what she'd just told him.

"He made you give him a _hug_?"

She nodded. "Those are just the two experiences that really affected me the most. But it was common for me to be teased for my hair, especially because it was very short when I was growing up. Until it grew out, it was comical to them. There were a lot of things that happened to me growing up because we lived in a predominantly non-Black area."

"Why would I get _angry_ at you for _any_ of that?" He gave her a bewildered look. "They're your experiences."

"Because the few times I've told anyone about my experiences in the Muggle world, they get angry and offended. They think I'm accusing them of thinking the same way, when I'm just telling them what happened to me. They don't seem to understand."

"Were those people Muggles? Exactly. Hermione, I'm a wizard. We don't exist under the same thought processes as Muggles. Muggles are stupid and their brains aren't as developed as ours. They—"

Draco stopped himself. He wanted to be sick.

He'd bullied her for being a Muggle-born for years. For her hair and her blood status, which was as unchangeable as the color of her skin. How was that any different from being a Muggle and bullying her for her skin color? He'd already overlapped by bullying her for her hair texture when they were younger.

He felt like a horrid person. In fact, the feelings of self-loathing were so overwhelming that he couldn't finish his food.

She was owed an apology for way more than just betrayal.

"Muggles and the wizarding world aren't much different," Hermione said quietly, looking at her plate. "It's hard for me no matter where I go. Part of being Black means that I have to operate the rest of my life with the knowledge that I'll never be fully accepted by Muggles who don't look like me. Being half-white, I have to acknowledge that I will never be fully accepted by Muggles who do. And being Muggle-born, I have to accept that I'll never be fully accepted as a wizard. The struggle is overwhelming." She looked up at him. "I don't want to have a child that will have to go through what I've been through. There's nothing I could do as a mother to protect her from prejudice, racism, or purism. That's why I don't want to have children."

Draco sat back in his chair, one hand in his lap and the other with his wrist resting on the edge of the table. He took his time replying, trying to sort through his confusing emotions and the words he wanted to say. He didn't want to make it about himself, but he also wanted to make sure she knew that he regretted the nasty things he'd said to her while growing up.

This was the first time he felt like he might not be able to fix something for her.

"I apologize to you," he said, picking each word one-by-one the same way he'd picked those flowers for her earlier that week, "for everything that I said to you that made you feel different and out-of-place. I apologize for hurting you in that way. When you came to Hogwarts, it should have been your escape and instead, I turned it into a prison for you. You had nowhere to go to for solace from it, and that is my fault. I apologize for the way I treated you. There's no excuse for it, and I still apologize."

She held his gaze, biting her lower lip.

"I forgive you," she said. "Just like I forgave all of my past. Like I said, it's something I have to deal with for the rest of my life—something no apology will erase. I've got too much to worry about in the present, anyway."

And then she picked up her fork, speared some pasta, and took a bite. Then, as Draco was still reeling, she spoke.

"Can you live with never having children? This may not be something I ever change my mind about."

"I can," he said, nodding. _As long as I can have you._ "It's something I want, but not a dealbreaker."

"We're bonded. There's nothing that can be broken."

"Well . . . She said as long as the bond is forged in strength, then it can't break."

"And she said that ours was strong." Hermione shrugged and took another bite. "I don't think we have anything to worry about."

They shared a small fraction of a smile and ate in silence for a few minutes.

But in spite of this—in spite of the fact that he had said those words to her and they'd put that piece of the past behind them—they were by no means in a good place. They didn't have to be in a good place for Draco to respect her where her past traumas were concerned, that was for _damn_ sure.

"Where would you want to live?" Hermione asked. "I don't think I could live in the Manor."

Draco thought for a moment. "I don't know if I could live in the Manor, either. I think I'd just pack all the important things up and turn it over to the Ministry as an artifact."

"Where, then?"

"I'm going to Japan for a year. Ryo got me an internship. I'll be working in their equivalent to the Department of Mysteries."

She looked surprised. "You are? Wow. Well, congratulations on the internship."

"Would you . . ." He picked at his food. "Would you go to Japan?"

She shrugged. "I mean, sure. I don't have any plans. I could go to Japan."

"Okay."

"All right."

"Okay."

Draco wondered if she could hear his heart pounding.

_She would come to Japan with me?_

"You know they have legendary cherry blossom blooms in the Spring, right?" she said, shattering the reverie and eating some more of her food. "I've always wanted to see them."

"Yeah?"

She nodded. "We could always take the year to explore the bond and figure out what we want to do for careers, and then pick somewhere else to live."

"Yeah."

That sounded like a compromise to him. Compromise was good.

This could work.

"Are you more partial to small houses orlarge ones?" he asked.

"I prefer a smaller house."

"I prefer a larger."

They exchanged glances, mutually agreeing in silence it wasn't as big of a deal as other things.

"Religion?" she asked.

"No. I'm a wizard. Religion is for Muggles who don't already know that everything exists at once."

She let out a laugh. "You're not _wrong_. But me, neither."

There was another lull. It felt like the most important topics had been talked about and like there was nothing else to discuss that couldn't be handled as the years went by.

Like they were trying to delay what came next.

"What are your views on blood purity?"

Draco coughed on the water that he'd been taking a drink of and set the cup down. "It's not clear?"

"I'd like to hear it, please."

He thought for a moment, remembering the words of wisdom that Ryo had imparted upon him. Blood status was not something he had the power to mind or not mind. Just like race.

He was not a god.

"I have no negative feelings about blood status whatsoever," he said, holding her gaze. "The viewpoints I held before the war were the result of my immaturity, my inability to make my own opinions and decisions differently from that of my parents, and my heartlessness. I'm not like that anymore."

"No doubt your father holds different opinions now, too," she said, her own words cautious as she took another bite. "He didn't seem to mind that it was me they had to bond you to. Or perhaps he's just learned to accept it."

"He may have thought we'd never find out, or that we'd ignore it."

"Lucius Malfoy condemning his son to a life of incomplete emptiness devoid of true love?" Hermione scoffed. "Sounds about right."

Draco didn't have it in him to respond.

Seeing his father had been difficult. Beyond difficult. In spite of the complicated relationship he had with him, he didn't want to see him suffer unnecessarily. He was in Azkaban for the rest of his life. His wife had died without him ever being able to say good-bye. His son hadn't responded to any of his letters.

And to top it off, the Azkaban guards barely fed him and were clearly ignoring the fact that his Cruciatus tremors had made it barely possible for him to write.

"We could always just . . . Ignore it," Hermione said.

"Ignore what?" he asked. "The bond?"

She nodded.

"And walk the rest of our lives feeling half-empty and devoid of warmth? Feeling like something's missing? Does that not sound like suffering to you?"

"Well." Her shoulders rose. "I just want you to know we have other options."

If he found out that Theo had been lying about what Hermione said, then she was it for him. If he found out it was true, then he didn't know how he would feel. The fact that the only person he had that he felt something for might not feel anything for him at all—the fact that the possibility of a family was on the horizon—made this ten thousand times harder.

"There are no other options, Hermione," he growled. "Not for me."

She started to say something else, but the waitress returned to ask them if they were ready to pay.

"No, actually," Hermione said with a disarming smile. "Can I order something else?"

Fuck.

He looked away as Hermione ordered another full meal, not knowing how to tell her not to do it. He wished he could convince her to just keep the food down. To be satisfied with one meal and have everything be fine. But he knew that wasn't possible.

It was a disturbing parallel to the date he'd watched of the Weaselbee's where she'd done this same thing. The Weaselbee had barely been able to look at her. Like the sight of her repulsed him on some base level.

Draco wasn't going to look away.

"I think it might be nice to travel," she said. "What do you think?"

"Once a year, or every holiday?"

She looked up at the ceiling. "Well, my family and I traveled once per year until I came here. Then they traveled without me while I was away. Now, they're . . . Well, you know."

He spoke quickly to detract from the sad look that passed across her face. "My family and I actually didn't travel much. My mother preferred to host. Family came to us until there was no family. Aside from that, she hosted galas, fundraisers, parties, and dinners."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Would I be expected to carry on that tradition?"

"Not if you didn't want to." He shrugged. "I wasn't much for parties and the like. I preferred the Library."

She perked up. "The Library?"

"Yeah, we have a Library. It's rather sizeable, actually." He drummed his fingers on the table. "We'd move its contents with us when we find a place to settle down, of course."

"Oh, but . . . It's so hard for me to focus on reading right now. It's like the words just blur together." She held a hand to her cheek, looking somewhat distant as she gazed at the restaurant patrons. "I'm not sure if I'd even be able to use a Library."

"You might by the time we make it there."

She frowned, appearing troubled. "What makes you think I will?"

Draco felt like she'd hit him with a Bludger. Now that she asked him, he didn't know. He just assumed she'd eventually get better. That she wouldn't be sick forever. That there would be a time here she could focus again.

He hadn't thought of the possibility that she didn't think the same.

The waitress brought the food and Draco watched Hermione eat it.

"Are you going to throw that up?" he asked in a low tone.

She gave him a pointed look. "I might. Why do you ask?"

His stomach twisted in circles and patterns. Was this his fault? Maybe he shouldn't have brought her here.

But Gods, he didn't know what he was doing.

"I told you to keep it to the castle," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Our second time eating out since, and you immediately decide to break the rules?"

"That was before you forgot how to keep your mouth shut, Draco," she said icily, picking up her burger and taking a large bite out of it. Her cheeks puffed out from how big it was, which made her look infuriatingly cute with the way she'd pulled the top of her twists up into buns. "Now, I'm going to do whatever I want."

Well, it looked like they'd arrived.

This was it. This was the moment he'd been dreading. He _really_ wished he'd smoked some weed before they'd left that day, but he'd been in too much of a rush that morning and nervous about what Trelawney was going to tell them.

But this moment had always been unavoidable. It had begun the moment he brought her the flowers and it ended now.

"Look," he started, already feeling like he was floundering in stormy waters. "I know I . . ."

Hermione merely stared at him, taking another bite of her burger. She looked unbothered, like she knew what he was going to say and was expecting him to do a poor job. She licked ketchup from the side of her thumb and then off of her lips.

Draco knew what he needed to say, but he didn't want to say it. He couldn't tell her everything. If she found out he'd not only told her secret to the Weaselbee, and then handed his memory of _her_ memory over to Potter against her wishes?

She'd never forgive him.

"I made a mistake," he said, lowering his gaze to the tabletop. "I made a lot of mistakes, but I think that it wouldn't be right if I didn't apologize for the ones that matter the most."

"All right," she said around a mouthful of food. "What did you do?"

As if she didn't already know part of it.

He inhaled and on the exhale, he said, "I pushed Weasley down the stairs."

The pace of her chewing slowed. Her eyes opened wider.

"I pushed Weasley down the stairs and then I beat the fuck out of him at the bottom of the owlery." He leaned back in his seat, spreading his hands wide. "I'm sorry for it because you asked me not to. I tried _really_ hard to resist—for a _very_ long time—but we ran into each other in the stairwell and exchanged words. So . . . I'm sorry."

She swallowed and set her burger down. "Is the sarcasm supposed to be humorous?"

"No. It's not." Embarrassment flooded him with heat, but he forced his face to remain unchanged. "During that encounter is when I told him about Paris. I should not have done that. I used your painful memory for my own reasons, and that was wrong of me. I apologize for that, and I will do . . . _Whatever_ it takes to make amends for it."

"What about me?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "Did you think about how it would make me feel _at all_?"

"Of course I did," he breathed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Of course I did, Hermione. It's _because_ I was thinking of you that I wanted to hurt him. Again—there's no excuse for my actions, but I had to make him . . . I dunno. I wanted him to hurt even half as much as you. I wanted him to know he had a part to play."

"Even though I didn't want him to know that," she said flatly. "And I didn't want _anyone_ to know it."

"Yeah."

She glared at him, her honey-brown eyes pinning him in place with a ferocity that was almost too intense to bear. There were several times that he wanted to look away, but he felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, swaying back and forth. If he looked away from her, he might lose his balance and fall forever.

"I'm very angry with you, Draco. And I'm hurt. _Really_ hurt. You were the only person who knew, and I had barely become accustomed to the fact that you did. There's a lot of stuff I shared with you that I will never share with anyone else." She lowered her voice to a whisper, and it sounded as broken as the look in her eyes. "You _washed_ me. You don't understand what that meant to me."

He couldn't stop himself. His arm stretched across the small table, his hand sliding past the plate. When he turned it until his palm faced upward, hiding his tattoos against the wood, he gave her the most apologetic look he could muster.

"I do understand," he murmured. "It meant just as much to me, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I don't care how long it takes for me to fix it, but I am telling you now that I'll do anything. As long as it takes. Even if you never forgive me."

She arched one eyebrow upward. "Even if it takes forever?"

"Until eternity."

Hermione placed her hand in his. "It may take that long. I'll let you know."

He closed his fingers over her own and his thumb rubbed the back of her hand. His brow furrowed in thought.

"Hermione, I want you to know that I'm gonna make a lot of mistakes. I'm going to make choices that are inevitably the wrong ones. But I need you to know that no matter how many mistakes I make, no matter how often they may hurt, I will always, _always_ do my best to make it right. I _will_ fix it."

"You're telling me you're going to hurt me. It sounds intentional." Her fingers curled and she held his hand. "Should I be scared?"

He searched her eyes.

"Probably. I am."

The waitress appeared. "Hi, guys! Am I interrupting?"

They let go of each other's hands and focused their attention on the waitress. As Hermione ordered an ice cream sundae for dessert, Draco found that there was still something nagging at his heart. Something that he wasn't sure if he should even address. Something that he desired an answer to.

" _According to her, she can't wait for the chance to never see you again. She said the worst mistake she's ever made was thinking you were better than_ exactly _who we all know you are."_

Draco needed to know if it was true.

"Are you sure you want to eat the ice cream?" he asked when she was merrily sticking her spoon into it.

"Yeah." She nodded, bouncing excitedly in her seat when she took the first bite. "I always forget how good food is, I go so long restricting myself from it. And ice cream is great—it helps everything come up easier."

Draco clenched the hand of his that was in his lap into a fist. The emotions that rose up to the back of his throat when she spoke about her disorder so _nonchalantly_ like this were too overwhelming. They eclipsed his mind with confusion.

How could she care so little about her life when he cared so fucking much?

"I'm gonna go use the loo," she said when the sundae was gone. She reached into her pocket and tossed some galleons onto the table. "For my dinner."

"You don't need to pay," he said, pushing them back towards her right as she was getting to her feet.

"You said you didn't have any money until—"

"I said it was rationed. That doesn't mean I don't dip into next month's from time to time." He pulled his own money pouch out. "Go on and take your galleons back."

"Draco," she said.

"Hm?" He counted the coins.

" _Draco_."

He looked up at her.

She was smiling.

"Once we consummate the bond, we're going to be together. We might as well get used to sharing things now. My money is your money."

She walked away. He decided to leave her galleons as the gratuity.

He didn't know how they'd forgotten one of the most important parts of the bond. They'd just spent the past hour discussing everything that came after the bond, when they should have been discussing the bond itself.

But how could they discuss that—how could they discuss _any_ of this—if there was no fucking guarantee that she would be _alive_ to see the bond through? How could they possibly make plans that would lead them into any sort of life together if she was going to purge multiple times a day, even in restaurant bathrooms?

And he was just gonna _let_ her?

The fact of the matter was a binary star bond was a marriage bond. That meant that when they consummated it, they would effectively be married. Yes, they'd be only eighteen. But that didn't challenge the validity. It didn't challenge the strength of his feelings.

If he was going to be her husband, then he needed to step up and _be_ her _husband._

He left the galleons on the table and stood up, heading to the long hallway across the restaurant that led to the loos. The boisterous noise of the patrons faded until it was muffled. There were two loos and they were both one-person restrooms. One was open and unoccupied.

That left only one option.

He knocked. "Hermione? You in there?"

After a second of tense, heart-pounding silence, he heard her voice. It was thin, high-pitched, and reedy. Strained.

She was purging.

"Y-Yes?"

"Open the door."

She coughed. " _What_?"

"Open it." He placed one hand on either side of the door frame and leaned against it, dropping his head to look at the floor.

"Um—just a s-second!"

Draco glanced down the hall, seeing people milling by. No one looked down the hall. When he turned his head back to the door, it was open. She peeked out at him through the crack, her face dripping with water.

"Sorry," she said with a weak, breathless voice. "I cleaned myself up, so it took a second."

"Let me in. Quick—before anyone sees."

"Okay," she whispered, stepping aside and holding the door open enough for him to slip inside.

To his surprise, the entire room smelled of flowers. There were quite a few pots of them hanging all over the ceiling. It was bizarre for the Three Broomsticks, but it was a convenience that they needed.

There was vomit in the loo.

"Gods, I'm glad you're here," she said, her voice hoarse as she walked back to the loo. She gathered up the twists that were hanging down her back. "My hair is really hard to hold back. Plus my stomach is doing that thing where it hurts again and it helps if I press flat on it with my hand."

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

_What?_

She thought he was here to _help_?

Did she think he wanted to _encourage_ her behavior? Did she actually think that he was the type of person who would hold her fucking hair back while she threw up her dinner? What the fucking _fuck_ was wrong with her?

"Why are you just standing there?" She started to kneel. "Are you listening? My stomach hurts and I can't get it out if I don't press on it because it hurts too bad. I need both hands."

He stared at her in shock. She was so fucking _calm_ , so _nonchalant._ He wanted to scream. What the actual fuck?

Had she done this withsomeone _before?_

"What are you doing?" she asked, one hand holding her twists and the other waving him over. "Aren't you here to . . . Oh. _Oh_."

Draco didn't move.

Slowly, her eyes widened. The realization that he wasn't actually here to hold her hair back while she purged the food she'd just eaten seemed to fill her with a mortification that turned her as red as beet. Quick as a flash, she flushed the loo and rushed to the sink. She washed her hands as fast as she could, her gaze avoiding his in the mirror.

He was livid.

Did she think he was soft? Did she think he was so stupid that he would actually come into the loo to _help_ her purge her food? Had he been too kind to her, or too understanding? What on Earth made her think that he would be able to be manipulated like that?

Who did she think he was?

She tried to walk past him, but he filled the door frame with his height and slammed his hand against the opposite side of it. She looked down at his arm and drew her hands back in a defensive motion.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I didn't know that wasn't why you were here. I just thought that since we had discussed it more in-depth when we were laying down the other day, that you . . . That you understood. I guess I had it wrong."

"And you thought that I'd . . . _What?"_ His budding rage made his words short. Slow. He bit them out through his teeth. "Hold your hair back while you _killed_ yourself?"

"Don't be so dramatic," she hissed, her hands in fists at her sides. "I misunderstood. It was harmless. I just didn't realize why you were here."

"No, no, no," he said, shaking his head. "Don't give me that shite. What the fuck made you think I was going to help you do this? Why would you think that I would _ever_ condone this behavior?"

"Well, you weren't here to fuck me in the loo!" she shrieked, her sarcasm evident in her tone.

Draco ripped his wand out of his sleeve and cast a quick _muffliato_. After he put it away, he took a step away from the door, towards her. She stumbled back a step, her eyes filling with tears.

"Don't test me," he warned, towering over her like a sentinel.

"Why are you being so cruel?" she cried.

"I'm not being cruel just because I care about you, Hermione! It's not cruel to stop you from hurting yourself! And knock it off with the tears, or else I'll _give_ you something to cry about."

Just like that, her tears stopped forming. She wiped them away, and it was like they'd never been.

 _She was faking_ _her tears?_

"I'm _sorry_ , okay?" she snapped, baring her teeth. "I misunderstood why you came in here. I just assumed that _that_ could be the only reason why."

"Really. The only reason why." Statements. Not questions.

He was so fucking angry.

"Yes. I thought you were here to—to hold my hair back, or to take care of me after. Or something."

"If you want me to hold your hair back," he breathed, his anger hovering behind the bars of his self-control, "then it's not going to be to help you do that."

She gave him an incredulous look. "You really think I'd do that? Just get on my knees for you in a public loo?"

"You can get on your knees _for_ the loo in a public loo. Why not for me?"

He was challenging her. He didn't mean it—didn't really want her to—but there was something in her eyes. A glint that he both recognized and didn't understand. It was something he felt like he'd grasped before, but like he couldn't grasp it anymore. Like it would slip away every time he reached for it.

Unless she gave it to him.

She reached up for her hair buns and took them down. First the left, then the right. Her hair tumbled down to join the rest of it . Her facial expression was a mixture of contentious and defiant.

He backed up, but her hand had already found its way to the top left button on his peacoat.

 _Smack_.

He snatched her wrist away from him and held it in the air between them.

"Don't get all shy on me," she taunted. "Call me a whore and treat me like one."

The feelings that he'd felt when they were back at the corridor—when he was crumbling to pieces in her arms—rose up. The way it had felt to kiss her like that, as though he couldn't resist the urge to taste her lips. Like she were the only person who could complete him and make him happy.

And the only person who could hurt him so deeply that he got angry.

Their gazes met and then, at the same time, dropped to each other's mouths.

" _Now,_ Draco."

Draco snapped forward to slam his lips against her own, inhaling through his nose as he did so. He wrapped one arm around her back, taking his other hand and sinking it into her twists. He grabbed a handful of them, wrapping them around his hand and yanking her head backward.

They crashed against the sink, the force of the counter's edge hitting her lower back causing her to cry out. He took advantage of her open mouth, shoving his tongue into it to dominate her. He pulled back and she tried to follow, but he pushed her firm against the counter to stop her.

"You want me to treat you like a whore, yeah?" he growled through clenched teeth, ripping his coat off and dropping it onto the floor without a care in the world. He slammed another kiss to her lips, groaning in his chest when he felt her hand massaging his growing erection through the front of his trousers. "Get on your knees."

She dropped like a stone through water, her fingers frantic as they ripped his belt out of the loops and tugged down the zipper. He choked on his breath when her cold hand wrapped around the heat of him, the contrast making him see spots. His hands curved around the counter, anchoring him to reality as she pumped her hand up and down.

"So good." His head fell back, hitting the mirror with a quiet _thunk. "_ You're _so good."_

She ran her tongue along the underside of his length, wrapping it around the head over and over. Until he thought he might go mad. His thighs quivered.

"I told you how to treat me," she said, and then her tongue laved against him again. His knuckles hurt from how hard he was gripping the counter. "I don't want you to be sweet to me anymore."

Something inside of him was torn asunder.

"You fucking _bitch_ ," he moaned. "You absolute fucking _bitch_."

"Better," she said, kissing the tip. A shudder ran through him. "But I want more."

Draco felt disoriented with desire. In the back of his mind, he felt the same as he had the last time she'd acted this way. Deep down, he knew this was some sort of issue within herself that made her feel better. He knew that.

It just scared him how easy it was to do it.

"I want you to beg me for it," he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. His hand slid into her hair and his other hand gripped himself.

There was desperation in her eyes. Desperation that didn't quite make sense to him, but that he'd gladly accept.

"Please," she said.

He tightened his hold on her hair, shaking his head. "I said, I want you to _beg_ me for my cock, Granger. If you want to be a good girl for me, you'll beg me."

"Please," she whimpered, her tongue wetting her lips. "I want you to come in my mouth."

He nearly whined at that. How was it that she was so perfect for him? How could just her words make him tremble at the seams? How did they make him want to lose complete control?

"Open those pretty _fucking_ lips," he groaned, teeth once again gritted as he wrenched her hair tight and held her head in place. She looked directly up at him as her lips parted, taking him into her mouth with a soft sucking motion.

It felt like the sort of heaven he never thought existed.

His hips snapped forward, until he felt the end of his cock sliding into the back of her throat. She moaned and the vibration of it hummed through his body. He began to thrust, his eyes rolling up into his head as he lost himself to the sheer, primal need to come. It roared through his body, plunging him into the heart of the flames. She sucked him off even as he fucked along her tongue, feeling the slick slide of it against his skin.

She was so fucking good at this.

"You want me to come in your mouth?" he asked, his tone almost too gentle for the voracious need that was burning inside of him. His hips pulled back far enough for her to take a breath. "Huh?"

She moved her lips to the side for a second, gasping and whining, "Please. I deserve it."

"Are you gonna keep it down? Because I'm not giving you anything unless you do."

Her head bobbed up and down.

 _Sweet fucking Circe_.

He twisted her hair again, forcing her head back towards him. She opened her mouth and he slid along the softness of her tongue. The feelings of pleasure that rippled like electric currents from his cock to his abdomen to his beating heart caused him to lose the last bit of control that he had. He breathed a stream of barely intelligible _fuck_ s and _please_ s, and then he felt the electric currents strike like lighting. With a low whimper, he came, the orgasm hitting him like a train and taking the breath out of him.

Her hands gripped the outside of his thighs as she struggled to swallow, looking up at him with that same desperation that had undone him in the first place. She choked a bit as he filled her mouth, some of it dripping out of the corner.

" _Fuck_! Keep it down, keep it down," he pleaded, feeling himself emptying down her throat. The waves of euphoria overtook him and he pulled her hair even harder, his other hand stroking along her jaw with an affectionate touch. "You're such a good fucking girl for me every _fucking_ time."

When she was completely done wringing every last drop out of him, she hummed her approval and licked her lips. She tucked him back into his pants and trousers, and then buckled his belt for him. He allowed her to, basking in the afterglow of what was the best sexual non-sex encounter of his entire life. Then, she smiled up at him, looking mischievous and like she'd just caught the canary.

"Did you like that?" she asked, rising to her feet.

"Yeah," he said, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of her neck. His eyes searched hers and his brows pulled together. "Did you?"

She smiled again, leaning up to kiss him. He could taste himself on her tongue and the eroticism of it heated his blood. "Of course I did. Was me begging for it not enough?"

He bit his lip, his gaze falling to her lips before bouncing back up. "It'll never be enough. Come here."

Pulling her up to kiss him, he tilted his head and attacked her lips with his. This kiss was messier, especially with how much he loved the taste of himself knowing that she'd just enjoyed it, too. She kissed him back with the same passion. Draco could feel her pressing her body against his in a way that showed him that she wanted him to do whatever he could to her when they got back home.

"Let's get going," he said after they pulled back.

"Give me a second to clean up," she said, smiling that same disarming smile. "I'll meet you outside."

Draco nodded and grabbed her chin, giving her a serious look before he kissed her again, his tongue sweeping through her mouth and tasting what remained of himself. He didn't know how the Hell he was supposed to function throughout the day tomorrow with the knowledge that they'd done this in the loo at the Three Broomsticks. It was like a dream from his younger years come true, and so, so taboo.

He left her behind, heading out of the restaurant without trying to look like the culprit of something.

The Winter air was cold and crisp outside as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Snow crunched underfoot, a light sprinkling of fresh flakes floating down in lazy patterns from the rapidly-darkening grey sky.

It was odd.

He'd spent so many years of his life dreaming of her, seeing flashes of her life in shadows, feeling nothing substantial except for fear. Never knowing who he was going to be when he made it onto the other side of the storm. Always fearing that he was going to be numb and scared for the rest of his life. Now that he had Hermione in his life, it felt like he'd been seeing in color for the first time in years.

Things didn't seem so grey anymore.

He just wished he could figure out how to rid himself of the fear.

She came out a few minutes later, her eyes bright and a smile on her face. There was even a bit of a bounce to her step.

"Ready to go?" she asked.

He held out his hand, half-expecting her to reject it, and she took it. They turned to go, nearly running into a group of startled young Hufflepuffs. Their eyes dropped to Draco's fingers intertwined with Hermione's. They looked about ready to bulge out of their sockets.

Draco couldn't help but smirk. He was starting to think he could get used to the attention.

* * *

"I'm starting to hate the snow."

Draco stopped, his hand being tugged on as Hermione traipsed through the snow to catch up to him. They were trying to make it up the hill and while it was easy for him, she was really struggling with the exertion. It seemed like she was a bit more winded than normal.

He worried.

"Well, it's not going anywhere anytime soon," he said with a laugh. "You might as well get used to it."

"How about _you_ get used to it?" she snapped, her cheery mood from Hogsmeade having dissipated with the daylight. "You know, if we end up living together forever in harmony, then you're going to have to be a little bit nicer to me."

He threw his head back in a laugh and squeezed her hand. "As if I haven't already treated you like a princess."

"I'm a queen," she said, tossing her twists over her shoulder as she stopped to catch her breath.

"Then what's that necklace around your neck?" he asked, taking his hand out of his coat pocket and pointing to where the pendant rested against the neckline of her puffy coat. "I could be wrong, but I think it's quite a few karats of diamond."

"Oh, you mean the necklace you _stole_?" She smirked up at him, swinging their clasped hands between them. "That's right. Pansy told me because Blaise told her."

"And you believed her?"

"Slytherins are honest when it serves them," she teased, tilting her face up. She puckered her lips and danced back and forth on her left and right feet. "Hurry up before my lips freeze off."

He smiled to himself and kissed her. As he tried to pull back, he felt her arm wrapping around his neck and keeping him bent at the waist. She kissed him again and again, quick successive pecks that barely allowed him to breathe. He laughed against her lips.

"All right," he said when she finally let him go. "I stole it. And what?"

"And _what?"_ She appeared incredulous, giggling. "And what about it, huh?"

"And what about it?" He leaned down to kiss her again because he couldn't resist. It felt nice to have things back to normal, at least for now. "I didn't have the funds with me, so I just took it. I could blame it on Blaise, but . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. You'd better not even try. You— _ah_!"

Hermione's hand slipped out of his. He stopped and looked down. She'd collapsed on her hands and knees in the snow. At first, he started to laugh, his good mood telling him it was a funny situation, but when he held his hand out to her, she didn't take it.

"You okay?" he asked gently, kneeling.

She sat up on her knees, holding a hand to her temple. Her eyes squeezed shut and she shook her head. Her breath came in short pants.

"Sorry," she whispered, blinking a few times. Her vision didn't seem able to focus on him for a moment. "I'm just—just a bit dizzy. I feel sort-of—sort-of weak. In my chest. So strange."

Panic.

Draco reached for her elbows and hauled her to her feet, looking at her in a new, concerned light. How could she suddenly be having this issue? She was fine not even moments ago. She was laughing and conversing and giggling and kissing him. And then she was on the ground.

Just like his mother. His mother had been fine, until she wasn't.

She'd been alive, until she wasn't.

"I'm all right," Hermione said, beaming up at him. "Let's just get back to the castle."

"You want me to carry you?" he murmured, only half-joking, his arm around her shoulders and his other hand pulling her chin up.

"No, that's okay," she said in a tiny voice, pulling out of his grasp and resuming her marching steps through the deep snow. "I just need a banana."

Draco stopped.

A banana.

Why would she need a banana?

"Wait a damn minute," he said, laughing a mirthless laugh of incredulity. "Did you fucking _finish purging_ when I left?"

She averted her gaze.

"Are you joking? You _still_ did it?!"

She threw her hands out. "I have slow digestion! I don't know! I just . . . Wanted the food out of me."

"So you lied and said you'd clean yourself up?"

"Yes," she huffed. "Don't act so surprised."

"That's the thing, Hermione!" he yelled, throwing a hand into the air in frustration. "I'm _not_ surprised. That's what's actually so sad about it. You're so fucking predictable."

"If I'm so predictable, then what does it matter that I did it, huh?" she cried. "If I'm _so_ predictable, it's stupid for you to act shocked."

"No, I'll tell you what's stupid. What's stupid is the fact that in spite of the danger it is to your body, you still do it. What's stupid is that you think that it's okay to eat your food and throw it up, and then lie about it. _That's_ what's stupid, especially when you used to be _so_ smart."

"Because your idea that it's linked to my intelligence cures me. Thanks." She gave him a quick, sarcastic twist of the lips and then continued up the hill.

Draco's vision was hazed in red. His thoughts were completely empty of anything unrelated to how angry he was, how used he felt, and how frustrating it was to deal with her. She was like a child, breaking every rule that kept her safe, running into the sea as the tide rushed in. Sometimes he wondered if she even cared if she died.

That terrified him.

He caught up to her, grabbing her upper arm and whipping her around to face him. She panted heavily, her mouth agape as she gasped for air. Her skin was flushed red and the indignance on her face threatened to make him snap.

It succeeded.

"What is wrong with you? No, seriously— _what_ is actually, legitimately wrong with you? Do you not realize I'm a fucking human being?" he yelled. "Do you not realize that I _care_ about you, and that's why I don't want you purging? Why the fuck would you think I'd be okay with that?"

"Aren't you always?" she cried in exasperation, ripping her arm out of his grasp.

"Aren't I always?!" He thought he might lose his shite. "Hermione! _What_ the _fuck_?!"

"You don't exactly try to stop me, Draco! You let me purge whenever I want and when I do it, you just comfort me afterward! You made a bunch of rules that basically _allowed_ me to keep doing it while simultaneously trying to control me, and then you barely enforced them! Now you want to act surprised?"

He scowled, revolted. Theo's words danced around and around in his head, reminding him of what she really thought of him. He hadn't wanted to believe it, but now . . .

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she snapped. "All you ever do is take care of me and while that's all well and good, you can't seriously think it was enough to get me to stop."

_It's not enough. It's never enough. Nothing I ever did was enough._

_And that's why my mother's dead._

"It's like you think I'm just making this all about myself," he said angrily. "Like you think I can't empathize. Like you think I'm a mistake."

She shoved past him again, stomping through inches of snow and continuing to pant for breath as she did. As she went, snowflakes clinging to her hair, he found that he was angrier than he'd originally thought. From binging in front of him, to thinking that he would hold her hair back, to faking her tears, to lying to get the chance to purge in spite of how clear he'd made himself, he was _furious._ He found that he could keep it inside no longer.

"Because that's what you told Theo, innit?"

Hermione stopped, remaining faced toward the castle.

"You told him I was a mistake. That I was selfish and that you can't wait until you never have to see me again. Didn't you?"

He saw her lower her head. Her shoulders heaved.

 _Crunch_. The snow shifted as he took a step up the hill closer to her.

"Why would you ask to discuss our future together if it's not what you want?" he yelled. "Why would you lie again and _again_ and _again_ if you just want to be rid of me?!"

She stomped down to him.

"What else was I supposed to do?! I didn't know if I wanted this bond! It's not as if I consented to it! What else could I do other than try to go along with it in the hopes that I warmed up to it somehow?!"

"You don't lie, Hermione!" he shouted, slamming the side of his palm against the opposite hand. "You don't lie and pretend to have feelings for me if you don't even want me in your life!"

"I _did_ want you in my life!" she screamed, and then using both hands, she shoved against his chest. She was weaker than a Bowtruckle, so he didn't move, but it was more than mildly irritating. "I _did_! But then you had to go and _ruin . . . Everything!"_

Draco shook his head in disbelief. "So, I have the wherewithal to apologize to you for hurting you . . . But the moment I call you out for hurting me, you get angry and belligerent."

"I didn't do anything _wrong_!" she shrieked, her face getting even redder. Snowflakes clung to her lashes. "You told my biggest secret, and then I vented to my friend! There's nothing _wrong_ with venting!"

" _It_ _still fucked me up_!"

He'd never yelled at someone this way before. He didn't know what beast had taken over him, but he couldn't physically hold the ire in his chest. It felt like it was swelling inside of him—like it was seconds away from breaking his ribcage.

"Then maybe you should have kept my name out of your mouth," she snarled, her eyes blazing. "You should have left my business to me. I would have told my friends when I was ready. But you took that away from me, so I needed to vent to a friend that I _did_ trust."

Draco knew she wasn't going to forgive him quickly. He'd understood that when he apologized. He'd known he was going to have to make amends for what he'd done, possibly for years. He recognized all of that and wasn't making any excuses for himself.

But he'd treated her so _fucking_ well and he wasn't asking for much. He just wanted an apology or for her to say that she hadn't meant to hurt him. Was she _glad_ she'd hurt him? Was it really _that_ overwhelming for her to face her guilt?

How could she be so selfish?

How could he be so _stupid_?

"You manipulated me," he said, "for a Hell of a lot longer than today."

"Fine," she said, unaware of the impending explosion that was ruminating beneath Draco's disbelief. "Yes. I manipulated you. When you caught me purging that day before Christmas, I was so sure you were gonna come back and be the Malfoy I remembered. I thought you were going to yell at me and make impossible rules. I thought you were going to rip the door off of its hinges and control me and go to McGonagall and tell.

"And you did make rules. But they were—they were possible, and you didn't seem to even _care_ that I was purging. You cared, but not enough to actually _try_ to make it difficult for me. You made it so easy. Gods, did you make it easy. But then you had to go and betray the _one_ thing I didn't want anyone to know. You violated my trust.

"You wanna know what the real definition of a bad person is? Someone who hurts themselves and others without ever seeking help for themselves. You're toxic, Draco. Just like your father."

Draco tightened one hand into a fist, his fingernails nearly breaking his skin. She was right. He'd made it easy for her. He'd made himself simple by taking the caring route—by trying to provide her with a safe space to engage in the behaviors—and she'd walked all over him.

Draco Malfoy, bested by Hermione Granger because he fancied her.

He was a fool.

"You used me," he said.

She crossed her arms over her chest, remaining silent.

He advanced on her.

"You used me because you think I'm a fool."

She scowled, looking up at him. Then, when she saw him coming toward her, her irritation subsided a bit. She uncrossed her arms.

"But this is what I find funniest." Her gaze snapped to his, confused and wary, but still angry. "You think I'm a fool until I've got my fingers or tongue in your cunt. Then, suddenly, I'm not so much of a fool, am I?"

Before she could realize what was happening, he was right in front of her. Her head tilted so far back that it exposed her throat.

Her throat, which he'd wrapped his left hand around in his fury.

"You think I'm a fool until you're begging me to call you a Mudblood whore," he hissed, feeling her pulse fluttering against his palm. "Then, suddenly, I'm not so much of a _fucking_ fool. _Am. I?"_

He tightened his hold on her, not understanding how he was holding it together when he was this livid. She let out a breath, and it sounded like it had to force itself past the circle of his hand.

"I'll answer for you."

Her eyes widened.

"Because those times are the only times you can't manipulate me. They're the only times when the knowledge that I'm in control puts _you_ in control. And that's what it's all about. You'll do anything to get that control. Throw up your food. Lie to get me to do what you want. Even get on your knees for me in a public loo. _Isn't that right?"_

She closed her eyes for a moment, still saying nothing.

Because he was right.

Draco pulled her closer, dipping his head down next to her ear. He spoke on the exhalation of a breath.

"Or maybe the reason why you used me is because you forgot who the _fuck_ I am."

He let her go and she stumbled to the side, rubbing her throat and coughing. Feeling no sympathy for her, for this witch who had taken advantage of his heart and used him to enable her disorder, he watched her down the length of his nose. And still, she hadn't said anything.

"I'm weak. I'm fucking soft for you. For _you,_ Granger." He reached for her chin, grabbing it and yanking her face up until she looked into his eyes. He had a feeling her tears were real this time. "But you haven't _seen_ toxic yet."

He left her there. She had two legs.

_She thinks I'm toxic?_

_Fine._

_I'll be exactly who she wants me to be._


	36. Chapter 36

**Trigger warning: bad BDSM etiquette, toxicity, and ED content**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Four**

Draco wasn't sure how to deal with this sort of anger.

His head danced with the darkest depths of his imagination, showing him what she must have looked like when she was speaking with Theo. How she must have glared at the thought of Draco's betrayal, and how easily the words must have fallen from her tongue. He couldn't know her exact words, but his insecurities were ample enough to fill in the blanks.

" _I can't wait for the day we can reverse this bond. I wouldn't want to spend eternity with him if it was the last thing I did. The fact that he thought any of this was real is what makes me sick—that he thought I could actually be with someone like him. He told a secret that wasn't his to tell. He's not the person I thought he was. I'm not sure I ever really thought he was a person in the first place."_

Draco Malfoy, the bully. Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater. Draco Malfoy, the fool who let himself be manipulated by a witch. There was nothing stopping him now from reverting back to the person he used to be.

He was going to remind her who he was.

Draco sat down beside Pansy in Charms, ignoring the scathing look she sent in his direction. He knew that Hermione had taken to sitting there this past couple of weeks, but he didn't care. It was his spot originally, so he was taking it back.

"You know that's—"

"I don't give a flying fuck," he said, voice monotone. "I'm taking it back."

"Okay," Pansy said, stretching out her syllables. "Trouble in paradise?"

"If you can call Hell a paradise."

" _Wow_. Okay." Pansy turned to face him, lowering her voice. Hermione had just walked in and taken a seat at the very front of the room. "She told me that you told her biggest secret, but that it was _forgivable_. I thought you just needed time."

Draco's upper lip curled. "That's not what she told her _best mate,_ Theo. Apparently, she thinks I'm a selfish waste of time."

"Well . . . Draco, you _are_ selfish." Pansy rested her chin on the seat of her palm.

"Not with her."

". . . Except that's not what you just said."

"I'm speaking in retrospect."

"Retrospect."

He shot her a sharp look. "Yes, retrospect."

Pansy's eyebrows shot up. "Sounds like this might be a Theo problem."

"Except that she hasn't spoken to me in days."

"How many days?" Pansy asked.

"I dunno. Two. Last time we spoke was Saturday, and it was an argument."

"You are so dramatic." She lowered her voice to a whisper so they could talk without Flitwick hearing them. "Draco. Two days is _nothing._ I once went a week without replying to Blaise's letter. You two have to be able to exist separately."

"How the fuck are we supposed to exist separately when she doesn't want to exist at all?" he muttered, glaring across the classroom to the wall.

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It's not supposed to."

Pansy tsked. "Well, then how am I supposed to help you if it doesn't make sense?"

"I'm not asking for your help. Why would you think I want your help?" He gave her a snide look.

"Because I'm a witch. A _girl,_ Draco!" she hissed, keeping her voice low. "I can talk to her and find out what the bloody Hell is going on."

"I know what the bloody Hell is going on," he said. "And it's my fault."

"So, then why are you being a prat?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

Pansy scoffed. "You took her seat."

"She deserved that."

"But you said it's your fault. Why would she deserve her seat being taken away if it's _your_ fault?"

"Because, Parkinson," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and sliding down into his seat. "What I did wasn't as bad as what I could have done. All the shite we've been through together, and she didn't even give me a chance to make things right."

"Maybe she just needs time. I'm telling you, I will _talk_ to her."

"You will not. I can handle my own business."

Pansy studied him for a long moment, and then she sighed.

"Draco Malfoy, I know you. I know you better than anyone else in this entire school. You're hurt. And when you get hurt, you get mean. Please try not to get mean."

Discomfort rolled down his spine and he slid down further, stretching his legs out. "Pansy Parkinson, pleading for Hermione Granger's life."

"After everything I've done to her, you're damn right I am."

It wasn't until class ended that Draco remembered.

" _Especially since I was the last one he was snogging."_

* * *

Draco went back to the common room after lunch to rest before his next class.

When he got there, the loo door was shut. He hadn't seen Hermione in the Great Hall, so that meant she'd probably stayed in the common room to binge. Judging by the mess of empty packages she'd left in front of the couch, she'd been at it for a while.

For a moment, he felt old concerns rising. Old concerns that he knew he was pretending to forget. He had to fight it. He had to fight the urge to make her tea or soup for when she got done. He had to fight the urge to get her some fruit.

She didn't want him.

She'd used him.

She couldn't wait until he was out of her life.

Draco walked up to the loo door, took out his wand, and aimed it at the door.

" _Alohomora."_

 _Click._ The door unlocked.

She was there, on her knees before the loo, with sick rolling down her fingers, the side of her hand, and the bottom of her forearm. It was smeared on her chin, just like the last time he'd caught her purging. Only this time, he wasn't shocked.

This time, he knew exactly what he was doing.

She stared at him in shock.

"No, it's okay," he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "You can finish."

She stared up at him, face and fingers dripping, and she looked absolutely horrified. Her voice was as hoarse as a croak. "Wh-What?"

"You heard me. Go ahead and finish."

" _No_!" she cried, her hand smearing her vomit along the seat of the toilet as she pushed herself to her feet. She stumbled to the sink, where she reached for the handle on the faucet with her clean hand.

Draco's anger flared, indignation pushing him forward to cover her hand with his own.

"I said _finish_."

"What are you even doing in here?!" she shrieked, trying to turn the handle beneath his vicelike grip. "Are you _mental_? I could have been _relieving_ myself, and you just open the door?!"

"I don't care," he snarled, squeezing her hand. "This is my home, and I have the right to know what's going on inside it. When you decided to purge, you gave up the right to privacy."

She looked him up and down, revolted. "What on _Earth_ has come over you? You used to—"

"What? I used to what, Granger?"

He ripped her hand away from the handle and then turned it himself. Glaring at her, he stuck his hand into the water. Before she realized what was happening, his left hand was around the back of her neck, shoving her towards the sink. His right hand, full of cold water, rubbed the sick off of the lower half of her face. He yanked her hand into the water stream and cleaned it, too. As he did this, he continued to rant.

"I used to be your little servant, allowing you to manipulate me into letting you have free reign to destroy yourself as you please. Soft, marshmallow, _teddy bear_ Draco Malfoy, and all you have to do is bat your eyelashes and cry a little. Take advantage of him. He'll just letyou waste away to _nothing_!"

She looked terrified, but she was Hermione Granger. She wasn't going to back down. With water dripping from her now-clean face, she whirled on him. As he expected, she smacked him across the face with the full force of her body. It hurt, but he didn't care.

He felt like he didn't care about anything anymore.

"This dorm is _ours_!" she cried. "It's _both_ of ours, and I have a _right_ to privacy when I'm using the loo."

"Not if you're in here killing yourself." He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Not if I'm the one who has to clean up your fucking body. No, this dorm is mine. This loo is mine. _You_ are as good as _mine_. And if I tell you to leave the _fucking_ loo door open, then I mean it, Granger!"

Her jaw hung agape in the wake of his shouted tirade. He'd eradicated any words she might have had.

"So get on your fucking knees and finish," he snarled, somewhat breathless as he pointed at the loo. It looked as disgusting as he felt inside. "Rightthe fuck now."

"This is wrong," she whispered. She looked terrified. "This is wrong, and I'm not doing it."

"Interesting, especially since you were so eager to include me on Saturday. Fancy asking me to hold your hair back again?"

"Stop it, Dra— _"_ A cry of frustration. " _Malfoy!_ I won't do it in front of you, and that's it."

"Then you're not doing it ever again. Because that's the thing, Granger. I'm not enabling you anymore. I'm not letting you use me. I'm not letting you manipulate me, telling me all about the ways you eat it all and throw it up so I'll be desensitized to it. So, you can either purge in front of me, or you can stop. For good."

"It doesn't work that way."

"I don't care."

They stared each other down as though they were seconds away from dueling.

Draco knew that all it would take is the shedding of his anger to break down. To gather her up in his arms and apologize. To make it all better.

But he could see it painted in the lines of her face like unrestored Renaissance art, with cracks running through the breadth of her strong disposition. The tension increased, multiplying like cells, and then he saw the resignation behind the rage in her eyes.

She was going to do it.

Hermione reached up to pull her hair into a tighter bun than the one she'd already pulled it into.

"Fine. All right. _Fine_. You want control? I'll give it to you."

Draco watched as Hermione turned to the loo. She bent at the waist, stuck the three forefingers of her right hand down her throat, and retched. She retched again. And again. The food came up, just as they both knew it would. Her jaw stretched open. Her eyes were flat, yet full of rage. It was messy. The smell was pungent and acrid. It was grotesque.

It killed him.

When she was done, she stood up straight. An almost euphoric look passed across her face as she staggered to the side, crashing into the open door. A shudder ran through her body.

Draco's muscles tensed. His fingers twitched. He wanted to go to her.

She swayed forward to the sink and cleaned herself up. The silence felt horrifically thick.

He'd just crossed a line there was no coming back from.

"Feeling dizzy?" he drawled, the sneer dripping from his tone like acid.

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

As much as he wanted to make it easy for her—as much as he wanted everything to go back to the way it was—he couldn't. He'd done her wrong by sharing her secret; she'd done him wrong by using him to give her disorder the perfect environment.

And they still weren't even.

That was the worst part. The self-hatred burned within him like Hellfire as he realized that what he'd just done really _was_ irreversible. There _was_ no going back from it. Either he gave up and gave in, or she got better. If neither worked, then he needed to take control.

He wouldn't be used anymore.

"From now on," he growled, "you purge with _my_ fucking loo door open."

With one last lingering glare, he pushed away from the door frame and walked away.

* * *

At dinner, he sat down beside her.

It was more Earth-shattering for her than it was for him, with the way she glared at him as though he were an eyesore.

The other students at the Gryffindor table fell into hushed whispers, scooting down away from them. Several professors watched on with surprised expressions from their table, exchanging glances. The Weaselbee was a ways down and when Draco shot a glance in his direction, he looked away with the quickness. Parvati, who sat across from Hermione, stood up.

"I'll see you later, Hermione," was all she said before she marched to the end of the table and took a new seat.

Draco started plating his food, his movements as nonchalant as the expression on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione hissed, her hands in fists on her lap.

"Making sure you eat."

"This wasn't in the rules."

"Fuck the rules," he snapped, his icy gaze snapping to meet hers. "I made some new ones. Get yourself a plate and start eating."

As he spoke, he noticed that the students that had been near them had moved so far down that they had an entire section of the table to themselves. They were sending them wary looks, like they were ruminating in disbelief, but that wasn't the most surprising part.

No one seemed to be angry.

Draco was glad they'd moved down. He didn't want anyone overhearing the things he was saying. Partially because they were cruel. Partially because he didn't want anyone to know. Mostly because he felt like these moments were his.

Everything about her belonged to him.

Hermione picked up her fork. Her hands were pale and looked shaky. They were tremulous as the fork slid into the quiche he'd picked for her and picked up a small bite. He wanted to tell her to take more, but he knew she'd dig her heels in even more.

His hawklike gaze remained on her while he chewed his own food, until the fork was placed into her mouth. She chewed, her jaw moving up and down at a speed that was too slow to be considered average. Her brows knitted together in a pained look, and she whined behind her closed lips. She stamped her foot under the table.

"I don't care," Draco said like he'd read her mind, shaking his head. "Another one."

She looked crestfallen. "But I don't _want_ to do this."

"Again—don't give a fuck." He took another bite of his own food. "Keep going."

Her head tipped back in what he could only describe as anguish. She picked up another bite.

When he was certain she was going to eat, he began to say what he'd planned on saying. He'd thought about it all night and had come to the conclusion that they were both at fault. He'd betrayed her, and she'd betrayed him.

He wasn't going to remove her from his life—he was just going to do what he should have done all along.

Put his foot down.

As they ate—him with a normal speed and her with agonizingly slow bites—he spoke.

"First new rule is that you're gonna eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You're gonna eat them," he said, his fork loud as he speared eggs with it, "and you're gonna sit with me. Either at Slytherin or Gryffindor—I don't care which."

"I'm not doing it," she shot back, her tone a bit sing-song. "You can't make me."

He breathed a laugh and took a bite. "Test me, Hermione. Go ahead and test me. You're eating. Pick up that fork."

She didn't move.

"Pick up that fucking fork, Granger, or I'm going to shove it down your throat."

Their eyes met, and she looked like she wanted to murder him.

"You wouldn't."

"I would, and I will."

"Draco—"

" _Shut_ your fucking mouth," he said, and then he pointed his fork at her plate, "unless you're opening it to eat. And for the record? It's Malfoy."

She looked taken aback and more than a little unsettled. He wasn't sure if it was his words or the fact that he'd shoved her back to a place they hadn't been in weeks.

It was hypocritical. He didn't know how to go back to calling her Granger in his head.

"Second is–take a bite, Hermione. Come on. Let's go."

A sour look crossed her face and she sighed. She took a bite.

"Second rule," he continued, "is that if you're gonna purge, you're gonna have to do it in front of me. Just like I said last night. No more being in the loo for forty-five minutes to an hour. No more looking in the mirror before or after. It's a quick in and out, or it's nothing at all."

"I don't understand why you'd want to see it," she snapped, her fork hovering.

"I don't understand why you'd want me to see it," he shot back. "Remember—I'm not the one who's destroying their insides. And if it's embarrassing, then maybe that's because you shouldn't be doing it. Now, do I need to repeat myself?"

She pulled another sour face.

"Third—I'm not playing with you." He pointed his fork again. " _Eat_ your fucking breakfast."

"And I'm not playing with you!" she cried. "I've already eaten like, three bites!"

She had three seconds, is what she had. "Granger . . ."

"You don't know what you're doing. _Please."_ Her face took on an expression that he recognized. "This is going to make me worse!"

"No," he said slowly, glaring at her so hard that he felt like it hurt. "Me enabling you was making you worse. Making those shoddy rules that just made it easier for you to get away with it. Being too nice to you, coddling you, being gentle. Well, not anymore. Rule Number Th—"

"I'll purge it."

"Good." He smirked. "Perfect opportunity to test out Rule Number Two, innit?"

"That's mortifying."

"Eating your food and throwing it up is mortifying."

"I'm not doing anything you say." She dropped the fork to the table, sending flecks of food spraying a ways away. Some of them attached themselves to her water cup. She crossed her arms over her chest. "This is ridiculous. You're not my parent and—"

" _Granger,_ if you don't—"

"And you're not my boyfriend!" Her eyes blazed as bright as stars.

He felt it like a physical blow, but he was ready for it. He was ready for anything she threw his way. They'd _both_ fucked up. He didn't mean anything to her, so she didn't mean anything to him.

He could dish it out, too.

"Do you wanna die, Granger?" he snarled. "Because that's where you're headed. Right to the fucking grave if you don't get a handle on this shite. The fact that you haven't had some sort of health complication is a Muggle miracle."

Her upper lip curled as she glared at her plate. "As if you care if I—"

"I asked you a fucking question." He reached for her chin, curled his fingers around it, and forced her to look up at him. He could feel the other students watching them, but he didn't care. They couldn't hear him anyway. "Do you want to die?"

She averted her eyes. "No."

"Then eat," he said, lowering his voice. " _Please_."

He let her go with an exasperated scowl and resumed eating. A few seconds later, she picked her fork back up.

"Third rule," he said when he was satisfied that she was going to keep eating, "is that you're leaving your dorm room door open. While you study, while you sleep, while you read, while you _exist_ —no doors will remain shut in our dorm. Got it?"

He could almost hear her desire to protest.

"Understood," she mumbled. "I need . . . Time."

"Time? For what?"

"To clean it."

He racked his brain. He was angry, but he wasn't unreasonable. "How much time do you need?"

"A few days."

"A few _days_?" Draco gave her an incredulous look. "When you have magic?"

"I like to clean by hand. It's relaxing." She slung him a defensive look, shrugging her shoulders. "I don't know. It's really messy."

Draco took a deep breath.

He was taking away all of her rights to privacy in the place she lived and slept in. She was going along with it. He could give her a few days.

"Fine," he said in a begrudging tone. "You have until Friday."

After a pause, she said, "Were we . . . Were we still going to London this week with Pansy and the others?"

His mind short-circuited for a second.

She still wanted to go to London? Could she not read the room? He didn't want to go anywhere with her. She was a user and manipulator and a liar. And he was an arsehole who was not only being controlling and cruel, but he'd told her biggest secret—a secret that was in _no_ way his—to her ex-boyfriend.

But Theo was going, so he was, too.

"Yeah. I mean— _yeah_." His gaze swept her face. "That's fine."

"Then I should have the room clean by Thursday."

"Ace."

They ate in silence. Silence that was confusing for Draco.

Why would she still want to go to London with him after what he'd done? Why would she still want to go with _him?_

When she was done eating, he walked her to class to make sure she didn't go to the loo. She wasn't happy about it. They bickered clear up until they reached the door, where he grabbed her chin and planted a kiss square on her lips that had her fuming. She stomped in past the wide-eyed crowd of classmates who had just witnessed it, and he watched from across the hall until class started to ensure she didn't leave.

He was late to his first class.

* * *

He'd thought he could trust her.

Hermione had done just fine at lunch, not arguing with him and eating her soup and bread without a negative word to say. Draco had walked with her to lunch after Charms—and yes, Pansy had looked surprised—but she had insisted she didn't need a chauffeur to supper.

Apparently, she had to go to the Library to check out a book before it closed and she wouldn't have any time before dinner. And since Draco didn't know how long it would take them to eat, she wanted the opportunity to go. She'd promised that she'd meet him in front of the Great Hall exactly at five. Since they both had Divination together at the end of the day, there was no reason why she couldn't be there. He didn't exactly feel like he cared to go to the Library, so he agreed.

She couldn't be that much of a liar, could she?

Yet here it was, fifteen after, and he was standing there alone.

As he stormed down thoughts were a whirlwind. A storm. An absolute fucking tornado.

_I don't have time for this._

_This is out of fucking control._

_Fucking control? Out of it. Absolutely out of it._

_She's going to do what the fuck I say, and that's just it. She can't take care of herself. She cannot take_ care _of herself._

_I'm justified in doing everything I can to make things more difficult for her disorder. If I can smoke this bitch out, then it won't have such a strong hold on her._

_She's not gonna fucking die on me._

He went to the Library, but she wasn't in any of the stacks. Annoyed, he headed for the common room, hoping she wasn't in there doing exactly what she wasn't supposed to be doing. If she was in there purging, he was going to lose his shite.

However, right as he passed the grand staircase, he ran into Blaise and Pansy. They were hand-in-hand.

"Hey," he said, skidding to a halt. "Did Granger leave the Divination classroom?"

They both shook their heads, and Draco wanted to scream.

"She was in there practicing reading tea leaves when we left," Blaise said.

Pansy giggled. "I don't know why she needed to do it, but she insisted."

" _Practicing reading tea leaves?"_ Draco spluttered, grabbing at his hair for a minute. "Gods fucking be damned, she is infuriating."

Without another word to them, he dashed off towards the moving staircase room.

He hoped she was up there.

For her sake and the sake of his temper? He hoped she wasn't.

When he ascended the last step leading up to the classroom, he was so angry that he was shaking. What was the point of her asking him to give her the opportunity to go to the Library if she wasn't actually doing it? Was she trying to shake him off so she could double back to the common room and binge? Or was she trying to skip supper altogether? Why was she such a Salazar-damned liar?

Why couldn't she see that she was _fucked_ in the _head_?

He walked up to the door and looked in through the window at the top.

There she was. Right there, still sitting in her seat. She wasn't reading tea leaves—she wasn't doing anything at all. She merely sat there, alone, with her chin in her hand and one finger twirling a twist around it. Trelawney must have seen fit to leave for supper anyway.

 _This bitch_ . . . he thought, anger flaring his nostrils as he ripped the door open.

"Have you made it your _mission_ to brass me off, or does it just come naturally?"

She jolted, whirling in her seat. The look of terror in her eyes was so absolute that for a second, the ocean of Draco's anger ebbed like the receding tide. It was clear she was frightened of him.

He stopped near the upper levels of the room, glaring down at her.

"I'm not going to bother trying to hide it," she said with a haughty sniff. "I don't want to eat dinner. I'm not going to. You can't force me to eat, so you'll just have to go have a good cry about it."

The tide stretched back in and rose into a tidal wave. Draco snapped.

"Have you lost your damn mind?" He stormed over, standing in front of her. She looked up at him without a care in the world. "No, really—have you lost it? Because what makes you think that I would _ever_ . . ."

He trailed off. What a stupid question.

 _He'd_ created this problem. Because he'd been fooled by her for so long. Because he'd been enabling her, letting her do whatever she wanted when it came to her disorder. She thought she could simply sit here and not eat.

Not if he just wanted her to live.

"Let's go," he said through clenched teeth.

She glared daggers at him, gathered her stuff up in a flurry, and stormed out ahead of him.

In the small hallway, it felt cramped as he loomed behind her.

"You know, what you're doing is wrong," she called back over her shoulder as she took to the stairs. "You can't take my doors and force feed me and stalk me all over the school!"

"I can do whatever the fuck I want where this is concerned," Draco said. "You've been waiting comfortably at Death's door for him to answer your wildly impatient knocks for far too long, and I've had it." He counted on his fingers. "When it comes to your daily meals, your purging, and your disorder, I'm taking control."

She stopped, one step below him as she whirled to glare up at him. Breathlessly, she cried, "My _disorder_?! _What_ disorder?"

"Um, your _eating disorder_ ," he said with a snide curl of his lip. "You know, the thing that's made us both go completely off the deep end."

"I do not—That's—" She opened her mouth and scoffed in indignance. "I do not have an _eating disorder_. I have coping mechanisms, but that doesn't mean that I have an actual _disorder_."

"Binging and purging are symptoms of an eating disorder. I told you, I did my reading and—"

"Oh, you did your reading." She threw her hands up with a mirthless laugh. "Draco Malfoy did his reading, and now I'm diagnosed. Thank you, Healer Malfoy."

Draco's anger flashed like lightning inside of him. "I'd say that the fact that you plan not to eat every day and purge just to handle your uncontrollable cravings? Yeah, I'd say that constitutes as some sort of disorder."

"A disorder is like an addiction, Malfoy. That means it's something that isn't under control—something that controls the individual."

"Shall I conjure up a fucking mirror, or . . .?"

"I do not have one. You don't know what you're talking about. I have everything under control—people with eating disorders don't."

"You have it under control." His tone was deadpan.

"I can stop whenever I want. I simply choose not to." She turned and started down the winding stairwell again.

The fact that she was so far in denial that she didn't think she actually had a disorder was so terrifying that it was laughable. Her obliviousness _would_ get her killed. She was going to _die_ without him, and that was why he didn't feel bad about taking her door privileges and forcing her to eat.

"If it was that simple," he said, reaching down for her wrist and grabbing it to stop her, "then you wouldn't have fought me so hard on eating breakfast, and you wouldn't have lied to try and skip dinner."

She tried to twist out of his grasp. "Except it _is_ that simple. I said I choose not to. That implies that my choice is tantamount."

"Your choice to get one step closer to death every time you do it is tantamount."

She frowned and stopped twisting. He could tell by the set of her jaw that her teeth were gritted. The ire danced in her eyes. "Tantamount to what?"

"To the fact that you have a problem, Granger. You have a problem, and I made it too easy for it to grow."

"And now you've decided to make my life a living hell to deal with your guilt."

"I'm not guilty." _I'm angry._

She stomped down two steps before she whirled on him again. "You _are_ guilty. You feel guilty because you _know_ you've been much too harsh and _much_ crueler than is necessary, and you _know_ it!"

"Except that I don't. I think you're unwell and incapable of taking care of yourself. And so I've taken it upon myself to—"

He'd never seen her look so angry.

" _Taken it upon yourself_? Taken it upon yourself to _what_? Tell me what to do? Insult me? Make me feel so horrid that I feel like shite about myself? You're doing a damn good job! And the only thing I _could_ do to cope with the pain that brings is the one thing you won't let me do!"

"I said you could do it." He shrugged. "As long as you do it where I can see."

She let out a scream of frustrated rage. "Do you not see why that's a problem?!"

"Oh, I know exactly what the fuck I'm doing, Granger." He smirked. "No one in their right mind would willingly throw up their meals in front of anyone. You're ashamed of it, which is why you hide behind closed doors and a closed mind. It's the reason why you hide it from everyone you know and the reason why you're so angry with me. You're angry with me because I'm making it harder for the darkness to breed."

Something shifted in her eyes—something that showed him he'd struck her right where it hurt—and a quick glance downward showed him that she'd balled her hands into fists at her sides by the hem of her uniform skirt. Her skirt, which looked like it was hanging off of her.

Pain wrenched through him, the endless torment of having to watch the person he cared for hurt herself again and again, and he turned his face away.

He gazed down into the darkness of the empty stairwell, which he knew led to an equally-empty corridor. With everyone being at dinner, it felt like they were trapped in their own dark, Hellish world while everyone else floated through Heaven.

"I know that what I'm doing is infuriating," he said, "but what you have to understand is that these are the consequences for your actions. You cannot use me, tell me it was my fault, and then act surprised and hurt when I change the rules! I'm not gonna enable you. I'm not gonna be manipulated by you or by anyone else. I let myself be manipulated by the Dark Lord _and_ my father, and it got me nowhere."

"It's _my_ body! I shouldn't have to manipulate you into _letting_ me do whatever I want with it!"

His head snapped back to look down at her and he moved down to the same step as her. She stumbled to the side, her eyes flashing with her ire.

"And I don't feel the _least_ bit guilty," he snarled, his presence pressuring her back against the wall with the sheer intensity of his glare. "In fact, I'm sorely tempted to tell you that you can't purge at all. I'm sorely tempted to go to McGonagall and tell her what you've been doing to your body since the school year started. I'm tempted to take the castle of lies you've built and _tear it down_!"

"That's just like you," she said with a revolted expression. "Telling my secrets when it serves you best. What's left after that? Are you gonna tell them the way I pleaded with you to call me a cunt, too?"

The images that flashed across his mind brought the heat of the anger in his blood to a lustful boil. He ground his teeth together in the back, fighting the urge to grab her by the hair and snog her until she was gasping for breath. His eyes flashed with fury that he could feel like flames in his head.

"You _are_ a cunt."

"And you just _love_ to say it, don't you?" She tilted her chin up, glaring up at him as her lips brushed against his. "You couldn't _wait_ for the chance to call me a Mudblood while your cock was inside me, desperate to slide all the way inside, _could_ you?"

_What the fuck is going on?_

Draco had never had this little control over his faculties. He'd never felt this hateful yet at the same time so attracted to a witch. It was like every time she did this—every time she pulled this dark energy out of him—she was setting him aflame with the same fire that she burned in.

She wanted them to burn together.

"You asked me to do it," he snapped. "Don't act like you weren't begging me."

"And you were _so_ eager to please, weren't you?"

"About as eager as you were in the loo, and again at the Sunamuras." He smirked, hoping it looked as cruel as he felt like being. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like being my whore."

"I want to slap you," she hissed. "More than ever before."

He slammed his hand against the stone wall by her head, watching the way she flinched. "If you do, you'll lose that _fucking_ hand!"

" _Maybe I should do it anyway_!"

"And maybe I should see how far we can take it, right here in this corridor," he whispered, his tone sinister.

Her eyes simply traveled back and forth between his. "It would be the last step, wouldn't it?"

"Last step before what? You bog me down for the rest of your life with your fucking problems?"

"The last step before you have complete and _utter_ control over my body." She whispered her taunts, too, her breath hot against his lips from below. "Because that's what this is all about, isn't it? You'll do anything to get that control. Take care of me. Believe my lies so it fits the narrative of me you have in your head. Tell me all the reasons why I'm not toxic so you can pretend you're saving me. Don't you want to _save_ me, Malfoy?"

_She . . . Did not just say those fucking words to me._

They were somewhere halfway between the classroom and the bottom floor, nestled in the stairwell in the shadows, between the lights' edge on both sides. He kept her pinned, his hands clenched so tight in her hair that his knuckles were aching. He bared his teeth, pointing the forefinger of his other hand towards her. Close, so she'd know just how thin the ice she skated on had melted.

He needed her to know that he was done with her games.

"No," he said, hoarse from his fury. "No, you do not get to take what I said and use it against me."

She slapped his hand out of the way. "Get your finger out of my damn face, Malfoy."

He glared at her, unsure of what to say. All this consternation, and he could tell they were just dancing. They were dancing the ballroom, swirling around a dead body in the center of the room. He felt like the body was her.

And his partner was a ghost.

She was trying to draw something out of him that he didn't like, and he didn't know why.

His hand flashed upward, where he gripped her twists and dragged her head back.

"I'm getting to the end of my rope with you, little girl," he growled. "You're pushing me."

She let out a bitter laugh. "Why don't you punish me?"

"Why do you keep taunting me?" He fought the urge to slam her against the wall for emphasis. "Huh? Why do you keep _fucking_ taunting me?!"

"Because the only way I can get what I want from you is if I goad you into it!" she said. "I don't _want_ you to take care of me! I don't want you to embrace me, or hold me, or tell me everything's gonna be okay!"

As she spoke, he felt the shock rendering his hold on her hair loose.

"I don't want you to save me, Malfoy!" she said, shoving his hand away from her completely. Her eyes blazed with an internal rage that he wasn't entirely sure was directed at himself. "I want you to lose control with me, over and over again until you go completely mental. I want you to crash and _burn_. I don't _want_ you to _save_ me, you stupid prat. I want you to _fuck_ me!"

There were bells in his ears.

Alarm bells, he was sure of it. By the way they set his heart to racing, they filled him with a sense of urgency that he was unable to ignore. An urgency that spelled at least a fraction of her problems out for him.

She wanted him to treat her like she didn't matter because the thought of mattering to him was too unbearable. If she accepted his compassion and his care, then she'd have to admit that she deserved it. She didn't think she deserved anything other than the shame that purging brought. Shame that only he could give.

 _She knows she's a disappointment to me,_ he thought, awe rocking him to his core. _She knows she's a disappointment to me because she can't pull herself out. And she doesn't want me to pull her out because then she won't have the only thing she can control._

She wanted him to fuck her because there was no love in that. There didn't need to be.

"You want me to treat you like you don't matter," he breathed. "Don't you?"

Her gaze sliced through the shadows to meet his.

"I want you to be as broken as me."

The alarm bells stopped and suddenly, he felt calm. So calm that it disturbed him.

The anger still seethed beneath the surface, but deep down, he knew that he finally had the one thing she'd been trying to get him to take so she wouldn't have to feel so bad about telling him he wanted it.

Draco moved forward until she was pinned between his body and the wall. Her breathing hitched higher as his left hand curved around the front of her neck, forcing her head to tilt back again. His eyes met hers, as intense as the lantern flames.

And then he kissed her.

He could tell she was trying to come alive by the way she turned her head and ran her tongue along his lower lip. He felt her desire by the way she slipped it inside his mouth with silent desperation and clung to his shoulders. He sensed her need by the way she whimpered into his mouth and tried to command the kiss in her own way, even as the hard press of his body kept her from being able to go onto her tip-toes like she usually liked to do.

It was like they were swimming together, but he was pulling her deeper into the ocean. He wanted to be the one to drown her this time.

Draco was the one who was in control.

He pulled back, still holding her by the neck, and their eyes met.

"Put your hands above your head."

Hermione's brows twitched together, a look that bisected nervous and curious entering her eyes. Her hands started to rise into the air. Draco felt she was moving too slow.

He squeezed his hand hard enough to bruise, his fingertips digging into the tender flesh beneath the hinges of her jaw. Her lips parted as she sucked in a small, constricted breath.

"Against the wall. _Now_ ," he growled.

Like lightning, her arms flashed upward and she placed the backs of her hands against the stone above her head. He felt her throat flex as she swallowed. Her gaze danced all over his face, looking for something. Then, it fell down to where he was withdrawing his wand from his sleeve.

"What if someone hears?"

"I guess you'd better shut the fuck up, then."

Draco had already silently and wandlessly cast a _muffliato._ But she didn't need to know that.

"Someone could come up here," she said, her voice tremulous. "Supper's more than half over."

"I won't need much time," he said, wetting his lips with his tongue. Without tearing his eyes off of hers, he reached up and placed the tip of his wand against the center of her left palm. He hissed the spell for a sticking charm, the word slithering from his tongue. "Granger, I can't give you what you want. Not right now."

He saw her fighting a shiver when his wand tip moved to the middle of her right palm. Another utterance of the sticking charm.

"But," he said, "you can give me what I want. Can't you?"

She glanced up, trying to wriggle her wrists, but finding that his charmwork was absolute. Flexing her fingers and curling them down towards her palm, she looked up into his eyes.

"If you give me what I need," she breathed, "then I'll give you what you want."

Draco glanced down the corridor, then back down at her. "You'll have to be quick, won't you?"

"You'll have to be good at it."

The challenge to her tone—Draco didn't like it. After everything she'd put him through, he wasn't having her commandeer _anything_ in this arena. Not now. Not when he was barely holding himself back from strangling her for the pain she'd caused him.

He tapped his wand against the opposite palm, biting his lower lip as he weighed his options. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to kiss her and touch her and feel her quiver. Wanted to hear what she sounded like when she was trying to be quiet again, just like on Christmas.

But she was right—dinner was almost over.

And he was very, very good at it.

"Granger?" he said, taking a step forward and putting himself close enough to her that she had to rest her head against the wall to maintain eye contact. He trailed the tip of his wand down the length of her side.

"Yes?"

"If you consent, spread your legs."

Apparently, she didn't need convincing, because her legs were spread wide enough for him to slot a thigh between them within seconds. The last of his calm was fading, becoming replaced by a beast that raged within him and craved the closeness that he felt to her when they were intimate like this.

Why did he have to care about her so much?

He moved quickly.

Draco muttered a spell under his breath, kissing her to distract her. As he deepened the kiss and drew her tongue to play, the tip of his wand began to vibrate. The soft buzzing sound was quiet in the corridor, but she didn't need to hear anything.

She just needed to feel it.

Fingers moving her knickers aside, he spread her apart and used his other hand to press the tip of his wand against her clit. Her hips bucked, but the angle of his thigh between her legs gave her nowhere to go. It pressed the wand more firmly into her. He felt her grinding against it.

"Wh-What are you—" Her voice choked off into a loud gasp. He saw her eyes rolling up into her head as his lips kissed their way up to her temple. "Why is that . . . ? Oh, _God_. Oh, my—"

A groan rumbled deep from her chest when he took his other hand, twisted it so his palm was face-up, and slipped his middle and ring fingers inside of her core. She inhaled another breath—one that stuttered—and her thighs shook. Her fingers splayed out then curled into tight fists.

She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip, the trembling in her thigh muscles becoming more violent. Then, her eyelids fluttered wide open and she gasped like she was coming up from the depths of the ocean in his dreams. Her breathing pace increased until she was practically choking.

"Please. _Please,_ you're gonna make me c-come too fast."

" _No_."

"Draco—I—I'm go—nna come . . ."

"No," he growled. "Not yet."

She shook her head, her eyes squeezing into narrowed slits. Her hips ground against him in circles, as though she were trying to keep the wand right where she wanted it. A whimper.

"Yeah, I'm coming," she groaned. "I'm—"

" _Hold it_ ," he warned, his gaze drinking in the sight of her face like he did every time. Her face right before she came was his favorite part. She looked so relaxed and euphoric. Like nothing bad could ever happen.

Like she was happy.

He moved the wand a bit to the left and she wailed. The way her body shook, quivered like she was desperately clinging to the edge just for him. All for him.

"Fucking _hold it._ "

"I'm trying," she said in a small voice, her eyelids falling shut.

Draco had been intimate with Hermione more than a few times. He felt like he knew her body well enough by now to know exactly what it would take to pull her up to the heights of the skies and drop her. How to touch her in a way that drew it out, so she'd come for so long and so hard that she wept. Those tears were _always_ real.

But they didn't have time for that. They were in the corridor outside of the Divination classroom. Trelawney could come up at any moment, finished with supper and ready to go to sleep. This needed to be fast.

Guilt twisted through him for wishing he could savor it. It was the first time he felt like he was completely, one hundred percent in control. This wasn't Hermione, on top of him trying to render him a mess. This was Draco, with his fingers inside of her cunt and his wand against her and her hands trapped above her head. All she had control over was her mouth.

He was going to give her what she needed so he could get what he wanted.

The moment he began to slam his fingers in and out with a violent speed—exactly the way that made her wail—he covered her lips with his own and swallowed her loud, screaming moan. He could feel her writhing between the wall and his thigh, her hips twisting as though it were too intense.

She tore her lips away from his, averting her face and letting out a strangled sob. Words fell from her lips, hurried and soft.

"It's so good, Malfoy. It's so good."

He shifted the wand a bit and her body went rigid. The tiny sound that escaped her throat, followed by the continuous moans showed him that she was already close.

"Filthy little _Mudblood_ ," he hissed into her ear as he worked her body tighter and tighter. She let out another strangled cry. "What will you do for me if someone comes up the stairs and sees you fucking my fingers like a little whore?

"Come," she moaned.

Desire twisted through the pit of his abdomen, sending flames to his cock that made it twitch. For a moment, he forgot himself and how angry he was. For a moment, he wanted to praise her.

So he did.

"You're such a good girl. You always know just what I _fucking_ want." He nipped her ear with his teeth, causing her to shiver. "What will you do?"

"I'll come for you."

Just the words that made every nerve ending in his body burst into flames. Without a care in the world he nixed the vibration spell and tossed his wand behind him. It clattered against the wall and tumbled down a few steps below them. Quickly, he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.

His heart raced with his incessant desire to fuck her—to grab her by the legs and hike them up around his hips and fuck the ever-loving _shite_ out of her—right here in the corridor, but he ignored it.

"No, please," she whispered, her voice high-pitched. She swallowed, catching her breath. "I was so close. I was so close, I swear."

"Shut up," he snarled. "Spread your legs. Wider. Don't be so pathetic. Fucking _wider_. Up, onto your toes."

Hermione balanced on her toes, bending her arms a bit to accommodate the change. Fingers still inside of her, he glared up at her. Her brows were knit together, troubled lines in her forehead that he knew were from concentration. Her eyes shone in the shadows, the lantern light reflected in her irises.

There it was.

The trust he thought he'd lost.

Startled, he pulled his mental faculties together. They didn't have time.

"You have _minutes_ , Granger. _Minutes_ to come on my tongue, or I'll leave you here for the professor to find. Keep quiet."

Before he got too enraptured by the fear in her eyes, he leaned forward and sucked her clit into his mouth. She cried out, immediately trying to cut herself off. When his fingers began to slam into her again at the same time, the lewd noises like music to his ears, she wailed again.

She tasted sweet, like all of his sins had gathered into one in her core, where he could devour them.

His tongue began to lave against her over and over. He felt her thighs quivering once again, heard the heaving of her breath. She groaned, and it made his stomach curl into a tight knot. He had to see her face, he just had to.

He pulled back, his fingers still hitting the spot inside of her that always brought her closer, and stuck a little of his tongue out. Holding her gaze, he ran the pads of the fore and middle fingers of his other hand along the flesh. Bending his arm to get the right angle, he began to massage her clit with gentle, circular strokes. The contrast of soft outside and hard inside was _exactly_ what she wanted, and she began to sob with pleasure.

But he knew what she needed.

"You gonna fucking come for me?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "You gonna _fucking_ come all over my fingers like the desperate _fucking_ whore you are?"

She nodded frantically. "I'm right—" She threw her head back, her hips going rigid. "Right there. Right there, right there, right there! Say it—call me— _please—_ I need—"

Draco wasn't even thinking clearly. Even though he felt guilty, the words spilled from his mouth as easily as though the Dark Lord had won.

"You know I own every part of you, right? You know that if things were different—if you had lost—you would be mine. Mine to do with as I please, whenever I wanted. Nothing but a hole to fuck. _My_ hole to fuck." He gazed up at her, seeing the way her back arched off of the wall. She was barely breathing. "I own this Mudblood cunt. Yes, yes—that's it—that's—" She came, and he felt it, felt her walls clamping down around his fingers like a vice. " _Fucking_ Hell. You're so fucking good for me, Granger."

As she was still coming, he leaned forward to taste her again. She choked, shaking and twisting, begging him to give her some reprieve. Somehow, she tasted even sweeter when she was overstimulated. When it started to sound like she was getting faint, he pulled back.

Voices. They wafted up the stairwell, raucous and giggling.

Trelawney and Luna Lovegood.

For the first time, the burst of panic in his chest was almost amusing. Getting caught messing around and snogging in a corridor was nothing he was a stranger to. He let Hermione's knickers snap back into place, _accio_ ed his wand, and nixed both the sticking charms and the _muffliato_. She nearly collapsed, falling into his arms with wobbling legs.

They looked at one another, a new awkwardness settling in that hadn't been there before. Before, when he wasn't so angry at her, he'd do his best to care for her after something like what they'd just done. She looked disoriented and dazed—like she needed him.

There could be a balance, couldn't there?

The footsteps neared them and then stopped. Draco let Hermione go, and she stood swaying beside him on the step. Discreetly, he wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers and then slipped them into his pockets.

"Evening, professor," he said, clearing his throat to rid it of its hoarseness.

"Hello, you two," Trelawney said. "Come to ask more questions about the bond?"

"No," Luna said, her voice dreamy. "I think they were just visiting."

"Yeah," Draco said, exchanging glances with Hermione. "Visiting."

"We're about to do some future divining," Trelawney said. "Would you like to join us?"

"No, that's all right," Hermione said, and then she gave Luna a small wave. "Hi, Luna."

"Hello, Hermione." A wistful smile spread across Luna's face. "Hello, Draco Malfoy."

Draco nodded to her, unsure of what to say. He'd never much interacted with Luna, especially since his parents had held her locked up in the Manor dungeons during the war. It wasn't easy to face his past this way.

"Well," Hermione said, edging along the wall and down the steps, "we'd best be going. It's late."

"Are you certain?" Trelawney looked worried. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," Draco and Hermione said simultaneously as they crept past them.

Luna waved. "Good night, Hermione. Good night, Draco Malfoy."

They descended the steps. By the time they came to the bottom of the stairs, Hermione was almost completely leaning against the wall for support. Without saying anything to her, he swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the dorm.

Back at the common room, he cooked them both supper in the kitchenette since they'd missed it in the Great Hall. He could tell by the brooding look on her face that she'd thought that what they'd done in the corridor was going to soften him up to her. That it would be enough to get him to let her skip the meal.

Not anymore.

He forced her to eat every bite, ignoring the tears of rage that rolled down her cheeks as she argued against each bite. Eating his own meal, he acted as though nothing were amiss. After all, this was what she'd wanted.

Did she know what toxic was yet?


	37. Chapter 37

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Five**

"Where the fucking _fuck_ is it?"

Draco muttered under his breath as he tore his room apart. He checked every drawer on his bedside table, and every drawer in his dresser. He rifled through his closet and every trunk he owned. He searched through the pockets of all of his clothes, clean and unclean, and he searched beneath the bed.

His weed was missing.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down on the edge of his now-destroyed bed, resting his hands on his thighs and glancing around. It wasn't that he _needed_ it.

He just needed it.

Fuck. He was gonna be late for class. There was no time to put on his uniform.

Keeping on the same black tee shirt he'd worn to bed, he shoved his legs into some trousers, laced on his boots, and yanked a black jumper on over his head. Scraping his fingers back through his hair, he grabbed his robes and rushed out the door.

Hermione was at the portrait, her robes fluttering around her ankles. By the speed she was going, she was _absolutely_ trying to rush out.

" _Ay_!" He snapped his fingers and curled one at her. He forced himself to ignore how cute she looked with her twists hanging down her back—that ship had sailed. "Nuh-uh. Come here. You're not going anywhere without me."

She threw her head back and let out an angry cry of frustration. "This is _absurd_!"

"I told you we eat breakfast together. We eat lunch and we eat dinner _together_. I meant every day. What, did you think I'd just throw my hands up and let you go to the Great Hall without me?" He slipped his arms into his robes and grabbed his bag, his eyebrows rising. "Did you think I'd just say fuck it and let you starve?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring up at him with pursed lips. "Say less. Given you don't give a fuck about me anymore."

"Language, Granger," he taunted, leaning down close to her as he reached past her for the portrait. "Or I'll clean your mouth out."

"With soap?" she challenged, sneering and not moving back.

"Amongst other things."

He felt her breath against his lips, saw her gaze dropping down to look at them, and he was reminded of the fact that this time last week, he would have kissed her. He might even have convinced her to skive off class so they could snog on the couch. Perhaps more.

When he looked at her now, all he saw was a liar.

He pushed the portrait door open and walked past her. After a moment, she followed.

They'd spent the last two days applying Draco's new rules. He walked her to every meal and every class, and he ignored the fact that everyone in the school could tell they were rowing. No one knew what they were fighting about, but it was clear by their energies that they weren't getting along. The gossip ran rampant in the corridors and classrooms.

When they were in the dorm, he sat in the common room until he got tired, and then he told Hermione it was time for bed, too. When she complained, he reminded her that she wasn't taking care of herself and her health, and that that meant she was acting like a child. And if she was going to act like one, then he was going to treat her like one.

She'd slammed her dorm room door at that.

Pansy had told Draco that she'd put in their request to leave for London for the weekend to McGonagall. Draco was surprised until she explained that McGonagall was more likely to approve it if they were all on the same request form. Draco didn't think so, given that he and Hermione had skived off so many classes the previous week, but it turned out that the professors had indeed chosen not to tell the Headmistress.

The cracks in their relationship had paid off.

They were allowed to go to London on the weekend starting Friday provided they made some part of the trip educational. Draco didn't know which was more surprising: the fact that he'd gone to London the last time with Hermione without permission, or the fact that McGonagall didn't find it odd that a group of Slytherins and one Gryffindor were going on a weekend outing.

Today was Wednesday, and Draco had officially spent every waking moment of every day this week with Hermione. He wasn't exactly _tired_ of her, but their bickering knew no bounds.

He thought she was as much of a liar as he was a betrayer.

"Have you seen my weed?" he asked as they neared the Great Hall.

"What? No," she said, sounding irritated. "Why would I know where your _drugs_ were, Dra—Malfoy?"

"Drugs?" He scoffed. "Says the girl who smoked it when I wasn't there."

"That was different. It was ages ago."

"It was like, a week."

"Still different." She tossed her twists over her shoulder and gave him a scathing look. "I haven't seen it and if I had, do you really think I'd tell you?"

They went to the Slytherin table, as they'd taken to doing in the mornings. Slytherins were less boisterous in the morning hours, so it was easier to find their seat and blend in without causing a ruckus. They sat down at the end. Draco purposefully chose to sit with the awestruck First Years to keep her as far away from Theo as possible.

She didn't seem to notice.

Plating her up her food, he ensured that it had everything necessary for a healthy intake, and then passed it to her. She gave him her usual disgruntled look and then began to eat with a mechanical hand. No words were shared between the two.

He preferred it that way. It was less volatile than it needed to be.

Hermione had been eating every meal without much complaint. He could see it on her face when the food touched her tongue, of course, but for the most part, she was taking it in stride.

There was always the possibility that she was trying to distract him, though. To distract him and get him to drop his guard. He could laugh at that. If she thought things were ever going back to the way they were before, she was fucking mistaken.

As he chewed his sausage, he wondered whether or not he'd gotten so high that he smoked every last nug of his weed. Because that would be ridiculous, yet so within the realm of his mannerisms. He could almost laugh at that, too.

"What's so funny?" Hermione asked as she took the last bite of her food and set her fork down. Her expression was neither negative or positive.

"Nothing," he said, distracted. "Ate all of it, then?"

"Yeah."

He took another bite. "Good girl."

* * *

In Charms, Hermione passed out.

Draco had no idea how it was possible. She'd been eating three meals a day for the past two days. She'd been eating, and she hadn't purged. He'd made sure of it. The only moments he wasn't by her side were when she was in classes that they didn't share or when they were sleeping.

And he didn't see her in his dreams, either.

At the dorm, the loo door stayed open at all times. At _all_ times. When they showered, when they relieved themselves, when they were doing their hair in the mornings. Draco had gotten used to it, but he could tell that Hermione wasn't exactly adjusting to it well.

Which made sense.

He almost felt poorly about it. In fact, he felt so poorly about it that when she did use the loo, even though he wasn't going to let her shut the door, he cast a silent _silencio_ so she wouldn't hear it. He knew he was being soft for doing it, but he couldn't reconcile what the difference was between invading her privacy and violating her.

The last thing he would ever do is the latter.

So, when she keeled over in her seat at the front of the room and collapsed on the floor, Draco was bewildered. What could possibly cause her to faint if she was eating three meals a day and she wasn't purging?

Unless it was something else.

Unless it was her heart.

_The courtroom was full. There were people everywhere and it was full and his father was going away for a long time. For forever. He'd never get to see him again. The courtroom was full and his father was leaving and—_

_His mother was in his lap._

_Why was she in his lap? Why would she fall over like that? Why would—_

_She wasn't blinking._

_She wasn't blinking._

_She wasn't—_

The moment Hermione hit the ground, Draco scrambled out of his seat. The other students in the class were starting to stand up, some of them rushing over, but Draco saw them as obstacles. Things in the way of the only thing he had ever cared about that wasn't family. The only person he had left.

Whether he was angry with her or not.

"Miss Granger! Miss Granger!" Professor Flitwick had just rushed over when Draco shoved his way through and fell to his knees beside Pansy. "Is she all right? Has she fainted?"

"Everyone get the fuck back!" Draco roared, his mind a white expanse of panic. He cradled the back of Hermione's head in his hand, his gaze searching the breadth of her face. Her eyes were half-shut, glassy, but they were moving.

She was alive.

Relief fueled him as he pushed her into a sitting position. Her eyelids fluttered open the moment she did, and she immediately looked into his eyes. She looked dazed and more than a little pale. Draco kept his hand on her back as she sat up fully, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple.

"Did I faint?" she asked, her voice soft and unsure.

"Yeah," he said. "You—"

"Yes, Miss Granger," Flitwick said, coming to kneel on her other side. "You seemed to be fine until you went a bit pale and then— _whoo_ —there you went. Right to the floor. Have you any idea what could have happened?"

"I saw spots," she said, looking down at her hands in confusion. "And I was shaking. My heart . . ."

Draco thought he was going to be sick. "What do you mean your heart?"

"Did it stop, or something?" Pansy asked, her eyes as wide as teacup saucers. "That's terrifying."

"No, no," Hermione said, shaking her head. "No . . . It just . . . Fluttered. I'm not sure how to explain it. It was like it had to trip over itself to catch up."

Draco felt sweat prickling on the back of his neck. He hadn't gotten a chance to talk to his mother before it had happened. Had she felt the same thing? Had this been the same experience?

_I wish I didn't care so fucking much._

"I think you should go to the Infirmary, Hermione," Seamus Finnegan said. "Madam Pomfrey could fix you right up."

_Not for this._

"I'll be okay," Hermione said. "I really don't need to go there."

As the students clamored to try and convince her, Draco studied her face. By the way her body shook beneath where his hand was on her upper back, and the panicked tremble to her voice, he could tell that she did _not_ want to go to the Infirmary.

He had a feeling he knew why.

The students continued to try and convince her, but Flitwick had the final say. He ordered Hermione to the Infirmary and Draco jumped to assist.

"What's the reason you don't want to go?" he asked as they walked down the corridor towards the moving staircase room.

"You know why," she replied, voice monotone.

They stood on a staircase, Hermione clinging to the railing to stay steady on her feet while Draco merely crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against it a few steps below her. Just by looking at her, he could tell she wasn't well. She looked like a gust of wind would take her out to sea.

Madam Pomfrey would know.

"You gonna tell me with your words, or just wait for me to read your mind?"

She shot him a nasty look. "You have no problem controlling everything else about me. Why not use Legilimency and just make me believe I'm better?"

A flash of anger slammed through him, but he hid it behind a lopsided smirk.

"You seem bothered," was all he said.

"I _am_ bothered."

"Stay bothered."

The staircase docked. Draco headed for the landing, turning to hold a hand out to her and help. She stood there, glaring at him as though he were holding out a parcel of pure calories.

"I hate you so much," she said.

"I can see in your eyes that you don't," he said. "Now, take my hand so we can get you to the Infirmary. That staircase won't move until you step off of it."

"Then I'll stand here forever."

"Granger." He scowled and dragged his hands down his face. "It's time to go. Come on."

A pleading look was sent in his direction. "Malfoy, _please_. If she sees me, she'll weigh me. If she weighs me, she'll just want me to—to take nutrition potions, or something."

"That's not my problem." He turned to the side, holding his hand out again and snapping his fingers. "Come on. Let's _go_."

She didn't move. "Malfoy, I am _begging_ you."

"I said _we're going_ ," he snarled. "Get your arse down here before I drag you."

Hermione narrowed her eyes a fraction. The distance between them seemed to stretch further and further, like he were soaring on the back of his broom towards the sea and she were running away from the shore. It was like they were running in opposite directions because if they went toward one another, they'd have to face the thing that was trying to control them both.

Her disorder.

Draco reached for her, snatching her by the wrist and yanking her onto the landing. The staircase immediately set off. Hermione's arm flailed as her feet teetered on the edge, a gasp leaving her lips as her life visibly flashed before her eyes. But Draco was irritated enough to be fast.

His hand gripped her chin, pulling her stumbling forward against him.

"You're going to the Infirmary and Madam Pomfrey is checking you over," he said, his ire overflowing like a bubbling cauldron. "The time for lying and hiding is _over_ , Granger."

Her panic grew like dark storm clouds in the sky. Her face crumpled, her mask falling apart. The telltale signs of tears began to glimmer in the corners of her eyes, shining like the diamonds that decorated the star pendant she still wore around her neck. Her terror looked as real as he'd ever seen it.

But he didn't trust her.

"Don't give me the false dramatics," he snapped, letting go of her chin and grabbing her hand in a vicelike grip. He turned and started walking, tugging even as she tried to pull against him.

"I'm not faking it," she whined. "Malfoy! I don't want to go! Malfoy, _please_!"

He ignored her pleading, marching them all the way out of the castle and towards the bridge that led to the building with the Infirmary. Though it was class time and the halls had been virtually empty, he felt better outside. Without the walls and the chance of an echo, it felt like it was easier to breathe out here.

Her cries weren't as loud without the castle trapping them.

As they stepped onto the bridge, he felt her defeat as tangibly as he felt the Winter's chill kissing the tip of his nose. Neither of them were wearing much more than their uniforms and robes and it was the beginning of a very grey January. The ravine gaped below the bridge, stretching for miles in either direction with white snow piled up in the crags and cliffs that jutted out.

When he felt her wrist twisting in his hold again, he whirled around to tell her to knock it off. Instead, he was met with the sight of her trying to curl her fingers around his. Surprised, he allowed it, feeling her fingers sliding between his and twining together. Her facial expression was naught but a glorified pout. She averted her eyes to the ravine and the miles of distance past it.

And she did look defeated. She looked like everything that she'd been fighting for was lost to things she understood enough to not want them to devour her. Standing there with her toes turned slightly in and her lips curved down into a deep frown, he saw that her shoulders were slumped. Her hands were so small in his own, and there was nothing beautiful about the fear he had that he would break her fingers by mistake.

She looked so frail that his heart broke.

Again.

"What?" he said, looking her over to ensure it really was surrender that he was witnessing.

She closed her eyes as though she were in pain.

"I'll go to the Infirmary."

Seeing her there, watching her appear as though she wanted to simply crumble into pieces right there on the bridge, he felt something come over him that was familiar. It was familiar, yet it felt like it had been ages since he felt it. It was the same feeling that had made it so easy for her to manipulate him into thinking it was " _okay_ " that she purged as long as he was there to take care of her. The feeling that only came about when it seemed like she was trying to engage in something other than self-destruction.

He supposed he could reward her with a little bit of what was left of his heart.

"Yeah?" he said, his voice as stern as it was soft.

"Yes," she mumbled.

Draco gritted his teeth. This was so hard. Staying angry with her. The line between hatred and affection was such a blurry, fragile thing. Sometimes, he thought he might just walk away. Every fiber in his being told him that being with her would be too hard—too painful, too difficult.

But what if he walked away and she died?

That disturbed him. Was he only here, holding her hand because he was afraid she would die? Were any of his feelings for her real, or were they just lingering nightmares from his mother's death?

How could his feelings be real if it was so easy to be so, so cruel to her?

His gaze dropped down to her neck, where he saw the diamond star pendant he'd gotten her for Christmas. Memories of their wild night in London crossed his mind—memories that felt a lifetime away. Before he knew just how deep the disorder's roots had sunken into her soil.

_The pendant she still wore around her neck._

Her roots.

If he couldn't be there to tend her roots, how could he say he deserved her when she bloomed?

Draco tugged on her hand without letting go, causing her to stumble forward again. Her feet caused the old wooden boards of the bridge to creak. She fell into him, looking up at him with a shy look—the same look she used to give him before everything got so fucked up. Before she grew into her desperation and he tumbled into his anger.

Cupping the back of her head, he pressed her face into him and held her there. He dropped his lips to the top of her head, placing a lingering kiss there. It almost hurt, aching in his heart in a way that felt like it could never be mended.

Even if she got better, this time would forever be a scar.

Hermione wrapped her arm around his waist, embracing him. He could hardly feel it, she had so little strength. The fingers of her other hand felt colder than ice in-between his own.

He wished he could drop her off at the Infirmary and leave her there.

He wished he could take her to St. Mungo's and leave her there.

He wished he could take her into his dreams and leave her there.

Maybe he'd stay there, too.

"If they send me away," she said, "would you come with me until they told you to leave?"

Draco kissed the top of her head again. "You're strong enough to do it on your own."

She trembled, shaking in his arms from the cold and something else.

"What if I don't want to do it alone?"

Gods. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He kissed the top of her head a third, final time. It felt like sliding a sharp blade between his ribs, slow and steady on its way to his heart. He was bleeding inside of himself.

"There are some things that we want that we just can't have," he said, emotion gnawing at his throat. His fingers sunk into her hair, sliding across the fuzzy tufts at her scalp that had begun to peel away from the twists. "We don't always get the things that we want."

"Not always," she mumbled into his robes, "but it doesn't stop me from wishing we could."

_You and me both._

Draco sighed. He knew Madam Pomfrey wasn't going to send Hermione away. Hermione knew that, too. If anything, she _would_ give her nutrition potions. All Hermione had to do was lie and he wasn't entirely sure he was strong enough not to go along with it.

It was one thing to stand up to her, but where other people were involved, he was still selfish.

A tiny part of him still wanted this to be his problem to handle. His witch to fix. He could do it—he _knew_ he could. He just had to be harsh where it counted, firm where it didn't, and show her a sliver of compassion when she couldn't go on. He wasn't going to do it alone, like he had with his mother. Even if he had to chain her wrist to his, Hermione was going to take part in this. There would be no more manipulation. No more softness. No more weakness.

Together, they could do this, couldn't they?

He let her go and before he could look into her eyes and break down, he turned away from her. Keeping a tight hold on her hand, he tugged her along the bridge. When he felt her other hand curling around the other side of his hand, holding it with both of hers, his lungs clenched.

Holding his entire world in his hands stole his breath away and left him suspended in the space between light and darkness. Even when he was angry, she was his everything. Even when she was hissing vitriol at him, she was it for him.

Here, with her hand in his own, he could feel their destinies intertwining.

When they got to the Infirmary, they stood outside the doors and looked at one another. There was a question in her eyes, but an answer in his.

"I'll wait out here," he said.

The question faded into dismay, and he saw her hope crumble. He remained strong to the way he wanted to put his arms around her. She needed to do some of these things on her own. He could handle everything else.

She opened one of the double doors, casting one final, forlorn look over her shoulder. He caught it right as he leaned back against the wall across the way. He crossed his arms over his chest and kicked his foot back, glancing up at her through his lashes.

Their eyes met.

She went inside.

As soon as the silence settled around him, Draco felt his anxieties starting to rise to the surface.

His entire life, he'd spent it knowing exactly what he wanted and exactly who he was going to be. Who he was _supposed_ to be. A Malfoy. Heir to the Malfoy fortune, last of the Malfoy line. He was supposed to do the things his father did not and prove to Lucius that he could be just as worthy to be the next head of the family when he passed.

The Dark Lord had taken everything he knew and flipped it upside-down. He went from planning to fearing, the terror of failure fueling him in everything he did. The thought of losing his family—the only two people he had that he genuinely cared about at the time—had spurned him onward with his task to get the Death Eaters into the castle. It had him contemplating and nearly killing his Headmaster. If it weren't for his godfather, Severus, he might have had a life on his hands.

Except that now, he _did_ have a life on his hands. His mother's.

Draco had known about her eating disorder for so long and he'd never once told anyone. Never once even told her that he knew, when if he had, he could have saved her from the heart attack her purging had almost undoubtedly caused. He had simply done what he could from afar, watching over his mother and cleaning up after her so her shame wouldn't be discovered. He sat on that bottom step and listened, wondering how it must feel to feel so out of control. He say there, knowing that she was just scared. They were all scared.

Hermione was, too.

" _We don't always get the things that we want."_

But what did he want?

Did he want them to consummate their bond and go to Japan together, experiencing married life in bliss? Did he want to pass her off to some authority figure to deal with her disorder so he could finish school and start his internship in peace? Did he want to give up on everything just to focus on fixing her?

He kept making the wrong choices. Wrong choices that he had to suffer for. Watching his godfather murder a beloved friend to spare his own soul. Hearing the triumphant whoops and hollers of the Death Eaters as they stormed through the castle. Feeling his mother's body cascade across his lap as she died because he never told anyone that she was hurting herself. Enabling Hermione and watching her waste away before his eyes while he helped her tear pieces of herself off.

He glanced at the doors, studying the intricate designs carved into them, wondering when he would figure out why he couldn't make the right choice for once.

Maybe it was because he didn't know how. Or maybe it was because he just didn't know what he wanted.

_I think . . . I think I just want her to get better._

Twenty minutes later, Hermione skulked out of the Infirmary with her arms full of potions. Draco didn't move, waiting for her to come to him.

"She weighed me," she mumbled, her gaze darting about. "And she said I'm underweight for my height."

"And did you tell her why?"

"I told her it was stress."

"Did she believe you?"

Hermione nodded.

"All right." Draco sighed and unfolded his arms, running his tattooed fingers through his messy hair. "What potions did she give you?"

"This one is a potion for electrolyte imbalances. It restores them to normal levels," she said, gesturing with her chin to one in the crook of her left arm. She then gestured to the one beside it. "That one, I have to take one sip with each meal for the next two days. Madam Pomfrey said it should aid in returning my digestion to normal. The ones in the middle are for rehydrating my body and giving me a daily dose of vitamins. Both have seven days' worth."

"How did she know to give this all to you?"

"She said it's quite normal for girls to come in talking of weight loss, and Quidditch players are very dehydrated, so they require similar potions." Hermione looked up at him and then quickly averted her eyes, like she was too ashamed to even look into his. "She says she gives them standard. That's why she didn't give me very much. They're supposed to be quick pick-me-ups."

"Okay," he said. "Let's take these back to the dorm, and then we'll just head straight to lunch."

Frustration flickered across her face but as quickly as it came, it dissipated. Without a word, she turned towards the exit and started walking. Draco caught up to her, walking beside her. He supposed it was at least good that Madam Pomfrey had given her potions. It was better than nothing.

He didn't want to know what Hermione weighed. He was afraid it would only be more harmful to her if he reacted to it at all, so he would simply say nothing. As for the potions, he was going to figure out a good schedule for her.

 _I'm just gonna have to watch her closely to make sure she keeps everything down_ , he thought as they crossed the bridge.

"I'm going to plate my own lunch today," Hermione said.

Draco felt his heart leap, but he schooled his facial expression so she didn't get a reaction out of him. "Oh yeah?"

"Mhm," she said, and for the first time since their row on the hill, she sounded a bit chipper. "I think I can do it. I know exactly what I'd like to eat, and if I mess up the portion sizes, you can just add more."

"Okay," he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "That's fine with me."

"Good."

Draco stepped off of the bridge before her, walking about a meter away before he realized that she wasn't beside him anymore. A tiny spark of concern snapped through him. What if she'd passed out or simply _died_ , right there on the bridge?

He spun on his feet.

She was standing there, shivering from the cold, with blue lips, chattering teeth, and a smile. The potions were still hugged in her arms. The smile caught him so off guard that his breath cut itself off for a moment. There was a hollowness to her eyes that seemed like they would never be full.

Her beauty was the sad beauty of the same roses that his father had planted for his mother. Full, rich, and alive in the Winter.

Dead by Spring.

"I want you to know that even if you hate me right now—even if we don't get along later tonight, or come tomorrow, whatever—that I'm sorry. I didn't manipulate you on purpose, and I should not have said to you that you were toxic like your father. It was hurtful. It was wrong. You may not be able to forgive me, but—"

"I forgive you," he said.

She stopped talking, her mouth half-open.

"I forgive you for what you said," he continued, "but I don't forgive you for how you used me. I don't forgive you for manipulating me into enabling you. I told you I cared about you, and I meant that. The only thing that keeps me here is the way I—" _Feel about you. The way I fucking feel_ for _you, Hermione._

Hermione stood there, her eyes looking so large in her head that if she weren't so unwell, it might look comical.

"The bond," he finished. "The bond, and the possibility that things can get better. So yeah, you'd better be sorry. You better be sorry, because I'm not letting you off the hook until you and I are even."

She looked up at him as he came closer, shaking and trembling like a leaf. The _clack_ of her teeth slamming together was loud. It was cold, but even colder for her. He cupped her face with both hands, feeling just how icy her skin was beneath his palms.

"I'll forgive you when you forgive me," he said softly. "When we forgive each other for our mistakes—all of them—then I'll let you go. Until then, you're mine."

Her eyelids fluttered. "D-Do y-y-you p-prom-promise t-to f-fo-for-forgive m-me?"

He wanted to tell her no. He wanted to tell her she'd have to wait and see. He wanted to be strong.

But he was weak for her.

"I promise to keep all of my promises to you," he said, and then he pulled her into his arms and cast a silent, wandless warming charm over the both of them. It was mild, just enough for them to have this last moment on the bridge. "Even if I have to hurt you to keep them."

She studied him for a moment, then nodded.

They headed back for the castle. Snowflakes clung to their clothes and hair, twisting lazily from the grey sky. As they neared the doors, Hermione spoke.

"How come I never see you in your dreams anymore?"

He answered without thinking.

"Because I don't let you in."

She didn't reply, but she didn't have to.

He knew it hurt.

* * *

"All right, let's see."

Hermione nodded, her eyes seeming a bit wild as they glanced across the space in front of them. There was plenty of food for her to choose from, from meats to sandwiches to cheeses to fruits to breads, and everything in-between. Draco knew it was likely overwhelming for her, but she'd said she wanted to plate it, so he was gonna let her plate it.

At today's lunch, they weren't quite so separated from other students. They currently sat at Slytherin, but Theo, Blaise, and Pansy were at the complete opposite end from them. Theo had glanced down at Hermione more than a few times, but every time he had, Draco had seen it out of the corner of his eye and sent him a scathing look.

It was difficult sometimes, remembering how good of friends they used to be and how negative their relationship was now. Draco could recall a time when all they did was laugh together. He'd learned how to ride a broom with Theo and both of their fathers. He'd ridden his first Abraxan with Theo. The first Quidditch game he'd ever played, Theo was there, cheering him on in the stands.

He'd always been his best mate.

But now? Now, everything was different.

Now, Draco didn't like the way Theo looked at his witch.

"How's this?"

Draco hadn't realized he'd been glaring at Theo. He'd completely missed watching Hermione select the foods she wanted. She was now looking up at him expectantly, not saying anything. They couldn't exactly discuss anything, given that they were sitting across from a group of Sixth Years who already found it odd that Hermione Granger was sitting at the Slytherin House table, so Draco was discreet as he looked at her plate.

"Looks good, except . . ." He reached past her, their eyes meeting as his face loomed closer to hers. Closing his hand around the handle of a ladle, he gathered one more scoop of potatoes and put them on her plate with the others. "You needed a little more of those."

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Yeah."

His gaze dropped to her lips and for a moment, it felt like the past week hadn't even happened. Like they were still spending every day lazing about in his bed, waiting for Winter holiday to dwindle to a close. Now that he thought about it, those days were some of the best of his entire life. Every day that he'd spent with her before this week had been the best.

It hurt to think about that.

 _None of this would ever have happened if I hadn't told the Weaselbee about Paris,_ he thought, misery pulsing faintly beneath his heart as he ate his meal. _I hate arguing with her. I just wish I knew which parts of us are real and which are false._

He glanced over at her, startled to see her looking right back at him. It felt like her face was open, her gaze clear in a way that he'd been desperate to witness for weeks. Like she was a book with all of its pages open at the same time. Like she had words that she wanted him to read and a message she wanted him to receive.

It felt like he'd forgotten how to read.

He had to remember that while telling the Weaselbee her secret was wrong, it wasn't the problem. It had merely exposed the problems they had yet to overcome.

They ate in silence, both seeming to be more focused on listening to the Sixth Years prattle on about this and that. Draco could barely taste his food. He nearly set his fork down.

His eyes fell to his plate, where he saw the food mingling together like an arrangement to be painted. It looked so harmless. So normal and unassuming.

How could it be the one thing destroying _everything_ right now? How could it be the one thing that had the power to take away everyone he cared about? His mother. Hermione. Hell, even his father had looked awful enough to warrant Hermione wanting to file a report to ensure he was given his meals. And here it was, just sitting on his plate like it had no idea that it was taking everything that made him want to be alive and ripping it away from him without a care.

How could something so crucial to life be so destructive?

When he was done eating, he felt exhausted. Like each bite he took had taken all of the energy he had stored within his body. He scrubbed his face with his hands and then dragged his fingers through his hair.

He wished things didn't have to be so complicated. Why did things have to change? He just wanted to go to sleep and pull Hermione into his dreams with him again.

But he didn't want her in there right now.

"I'm full," Hermione suddenly said.

Draco arched an eyebrow, turning to face her. "There's still food on the plate."

"I know." She shot a wary glance in the direction of the Sixth Years, who were still chattering. "But I'm full now."

They shared a look that felt like electricity was running back and forth between them. A look that told him that if those Sixth Years weren't here, the quasi-positive atmosphere they'd been sharing since their conversation on the bridge would be shattered. He felt the first stirrings of annoyance in his chest, starting to expand.

"Can you maybe try to eat the rest of it?" he asked, voice strained as he rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm.

"I did try," she replied, "but I'm full."

Draco couldn't tell if she was lying, and that was perhaps more frustrating than the fact that she wasn't finishing the meal.

For a split second, he considered letting it go. He considered dropping the topic, letting it fade into the nether with the rest of the things he tried to ignore. But the more he thought about it, the more it dug its claws in, hooking into the flesh of his psyche like it wanted to pain him.

"Granger," he said slowly, "I'm gonna need you to pick up your fork now, yeah?"

She beseeched him with the pull of her eyebrows. "I'm being honest. I'm full. I can't eat another bite, I _swear_."

"Pick it up," he hissed, "and eat."

Across from them, the Sixth Years had fallen silent in the sort of way that told Draco they were eavesdropping. He wanted to turn to them and give them a look, snap at them, _something_ —but the last thing he wanted to deal with was more gossip. The entire school had discovered that they were going together and now were arguing, all in less than two weeks.

What did _Theo_ think of that?

" _Malfoy_ ," she said, her tone pleading. " _I'm_. _Full_."

Draco saw red. He had to fight to contain it behind a woven net of decorum, calm, and reasonability.

"Finish the rest of your lunch, please. If you don't, then you'll have to make it up at dinner."

Hermione's eyes widened. He could tell she was shocked. She wasn't prepared for that, and it made her just as angry as he felt.

"I told you that I'm full, Malfoy." She hissed her words like curses. "That means that I'm full. I'm not going to overstuff myself just to appease _you_. I ate a normal amount of food, and that should be good enough."

" _I_ decide what's good enough," he growled back, no longer caring about the Sixth Years. " _I_ decide when you've eaten enough. If you wanted to be able to decide that for yourself, then you should have thought about that before you put us in this situation."

" _Us_?!" Her eyes looked about ready to pop out of her head. She gestured between the two of them with her hand. "The situation I put _us_ into?!"

"Um, _yeah_. The fact that we're sitting here, bickering over the fact that you're going above and beyond to try and get out of eating four bites insinuates that we're in this together!"

" _This_? What—what—what is ' _this_ '?" she spluttered. "Could you be talking about the state of the disorder you seem to think I have? Or could it perhaps be the bond that _your_ parents forced me into without my consent? Wait—you said, ' _put us in this situation'_. Do you mean the situation where you inserted yourself into my life like the overbearing, controlling arsehole you are? Or maybe it's simpler than that." She slammed her hands down flat on the table and pushed herself to her feet, leaning down to berate him. "Maybe you're talking about the fact that the most painful, _private_ night in my life was not only viewed but _experienced_ by you without my permission?"

He felt his heart taking a dive right into the pits of Hell. By the anger blazing in her eyes, he could tell hers was already there when his arrived.

"Yeah," she spat. "I think that's it. I guess I did put _us_ into this situation, didn't I?"

She grabbed her bag, turned on her heel, and stormed off towards the doors.

The Sixth Years stared at Draco with their jaws agape. From the look in their eyes, they didn't seem to know whether to be shocked or amused.

Draco watched her go, his hands shaking as he pulled them through his hair again in agitation. He felt sick to his stomach, like it was curdling in his body as he sat there and stewed in his own regrets.

She was right. In a lot of ways, she was right.

Yes, she had manipulated him in some way he had no idea the details or specifics of yet.

But the fact that he'd inserted himself into her life, taking it upon himself to save her from the disorder she— _clearly_ —had? That his parents had forced her into a soulmate bond she never would have agreed to if it were up to her? The fact that she seemed to be getting sicker with each day that wore on because of the stress the bond placed upon her?

All true.

_I was pulled into a memory that I never would have seen if it weren't for the bond. It doesn't matter if she was suffering alone—it was never my right to be a part of that experience. It was never my place and it never will be. There's nothing anyone can do or say to make it okay._

Because now, Hermione Granger had to exist for the rest of her life knowing what it felt like to have a man inside of her mind at the same time that another man was inside of her body against her will.

When he looked at it that way, whatever she'd manipulated him with seemed to pale in comparison. And now, it sounded like by saying she'd " _put them into this situation,"_ when all of this began with the memory of Paris, he was telling her that her assault was her fault.

How could he have forgotten about Paris without ever really forgetting about it?

Draco knew he had to catch up to her. He understood now what this was really about. This was a power struggle between the two of them. Him trying to find his footing in her life; her trying to retain the footing she'd already managed to gain. The two of them trying to navigate the soulmate bond, their feelings, and her trauma. And him not being able to talk about his own.

He wasn't going to let her walk away from this. Not from this. Not from him.

And certainly not to the loo.

He scrambled to his feet and dashed through the crowded Great Hall to catch up to her.

When they got into the shadowed corridor, he grabbed her arm. She yelped as he dragged her past the right side door and pushed her against the wall beside it. He pointed a threatening finger in her face, his ire burning so bright that it could light the entire countryside.

"Don't you _ever_ take that situation and use it like that against me, do you hear me?" he snarled. "If you do it again, we're done. Do you hear me? We'll be _done_."

A split-second of fear flashed through her eyes like lightning and then she shoved his hand out of the way.

"Oh, sure. Use my rape against me." She sneered at him, giving him a onceover. "Why don't you understand? Do you not grasp that my body isn't even mine anymore? No part of it belongs to me except what I can control. The _only_ thing that's mine. And all you care about is remaking me in your image—because you want my body in the state that _you_ want it so you can _own_ it."

Draco felt the rage starting to rise again. "Don't you fucking dare. Don't you dare disrespect me like that."

"I wasn't aware you were owed respect for _my_ trauma."

He opened his mouth, but the words he originally wanted to say died in his throat. Instead, they became replaced with something new. Something dangerous. Something as dark as the shadows in the windowless corridor that twisted their way around them right now.

"Do you not realize how irrevocably Paris changed me?" He took a step closer to her, and her back hit the wall once more. His eyes never left hers, wide and terrified as they were. "Do you not grasp that I would take an _avada_ to the _chest_ for you? I'm not trying to control you. I'm not even trying to save you. I'm just trying to love you, and you won't _let_ me."

The pace of her breathing picked up and she squeezed her eyes shut. "Stop. Don't—just stop. Don't say that."

"Why not?" His whisper grated harsh to his own ears. He kept his hands at his sides, even though they tingled with the urge to touch her. "Is it so appalling to you to think that you're worth something more to me than just a body?"

" _Stop_ ," she said, covering her face with her hands. "Please, please stop."

"No. You have value, Granger. You have value, and the value that you have is enough for me to overlook whatever it is you've done wrong and still protect you. Even from yourself."

"Malfoy!" she cried, sounding panicked. "It was just—just four bites of food! It's not that—it's not that _deep_ , I—I—"

He grabbed her chin, cutting her words off as he forced it upward so she looked into his eyes.

"It's not just four bites of food. It's everything. It's all the times you won't eat the first bite, and all the times you won't eat the last. I don't want to _own_ your body, Granger. I don't want to _have_ it. I want _you_. But I want you to _live_. Why don't _you_ understand?"

She sucked in her breath, but it didn't seem enough to quell the flames.

"I don't want to understand. I don't _want_ you to want me. I just want to . . . To . . ."

She didn't have to finish her sentence. She didn't have to say it for him to know that she wanted his worst nightmare to come true. The very thing he was so terrified of that he would do, be, or say anything to keep it from happening.

"I will do _anything_ to make sure you stay alive," he said, his breath hot against her lips. "I don't care how toxic I have to get. I don't care if you hate me. I'm sorry that I used Paris against you—it was wrong. But I'll never fucking apologize for doing what it takes to make sure I don't have to watch another person I care for die."

There was a moment of silence before her eyes widened yet again, the words settling into her psyche with the speed of a Snitch.

When they kissed this time, it was because she had pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes to initiate it. The second he felt her soft skin pillowed against his, whatever net he'd woven around himself to stay in control came undone thread by thread. It unraveled, leaving him nearly wanton in the corridor.

_Thud._

Hermione dropped her bag to the floor.

Draco slammed her up against the wall, the raucous noise of the Great Hall orchestrating the music of their tongues dancing from one mouth to the other. Her fingers found their way into his hair, her nails sliding across his scalp. A delicious shiver ran through his body, causing him to groan in his chest and turn his head to the side like he always did when he felt like he couldn't get as far inside of her as he wanted to. She gasped again and again, desperate for air as he stole every last drop of it from her lungs.

And he could feel it. He could feel it, aching down in the very bottom of his heart. Fluttering like wings and taking flight over molten rock in a way that made his entire soul feel dangerously airborne.

If the Dark Lord returned tomorrow and they were thrown into battle again, he'd hold her behind him while he showed the Death Eaters just how well he excelled at dueling. If the Dark Lord won and took over, Draco would do whatever he could to make sure he and Hermione were safe.

If he found out on the hill outside of Hogwarts that she'd manipulated him, he wouldn't even ask her how.

Draco would do anything for her. Be anything for her. Give her everything she could ever dream of or hope for. Take all of her pain away and drive it deep down inside of himself where it could join the rest of his despair and become part of him.

He just wanted her to be okay.

Draco pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, his hands sliding up her waist. His fingers ached at the feeling.

"How am I supposed to stay angry with you when you kiss me like that?" she breathed, panting with her eyes remaining closed.

Draco bit his lower lip, moving his hands up to cup her cheeks.

"You're not," he murmured.

They kissed again, this time slower and more languid than the first. Draco could hear voices congregating from inside the Great Hall, signifying that lunch was coming to an end. Soon, everyone would flood out and see them.

Not that he minded.

He could feel her trying to pull away, but he continuously pulled her face back towards his. Intensifying the pressure of his mouth every time she tried, he felt the whimpers she was trying so violently to hold in her chest. They made his own stomach curl with the same ache he felt in his loins. Her hands clung to the fabric of his jumper, alternating between smoothing over his pectorals and curling inward.

"Please," she mumbled between kisses. "Please. They'll—they'll see."

"Let them."

_I want them to._

_Let them all see she's still mine._

Draco could tell Hermione had never been kissed like this before. He wasn't entirely sure he'd ever kissed anyone this way before, either. It felt like he was spelling his promises out to her against her tongue. Like he was letting her know that even if he never forgave her, he would never leave her.

He would never give up on her.

Losing the last of his mind, he trailed his kisses along her jaw. Between each, he breathed out whatever words came to the empty expanse that gaped between his ears.

"So fucking soft . . . So good . . . _Fucking_ sweet . . . _All mine_ . . . It feels good, doesn't it?"

She didn't say anything, but he heard her sigh. He felt her nodding, frantic jerks of her head that told him all he needed to know.

Draco's lips were hot and heavy as they reached the spot beneath her ear that always made her cry out. As his lips brushed against it, he took his right hand and wrapped it around her throat, just the way she liked. He felt her pressing into his palm as her head fell back on her shoulders. He laved his tongue against the indentation behind her jaw, and he could practically hear her eyes rolling from trying to keep quiet.

" _Fuck_ ," Hermione whined, a shiver rocking through her body. The sound of the rare curse word upon her lips made him growl, and he sucked her earlobe into his mouth. Her heard her gasping, heard it rising into a moan . . .

. . . Right as a group of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindor boys came traipsing out of the Great Hall.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" one of the Gryffindors practically shouted, a boisterous Seventh Year. "What have we here? The lion snogging the snake?"

The insult dug into Draco's still-ebbing irritation.

He tore his lips from Hermione's, his left forearm flat against the wall and his right hand moving from her throat to her shoulder. He tipped his head back, giving the air a frustrated scowl. Rolling his neck, he shot the students a scathing glare.

"If you want to watch, that'll be ten thousand galleons," he said, smirking as the words rolled off of his tongue. "Otherwise, move along."

The boys laughed, sharing a couple of glances. But when they saw the way Draco's smirk didn't match the darkness in his eyes, they shrunk away. A couple of the boys took a step back.

"Sorry," the one who had spoken mumbled, averting his gaze. He held up a defensive hand. "We'll go."

"Yeah. You will."

They turned and hurried down the corridor, going the opposite direction.

"It's time for class, anyway," Hermione said, playing with her twists as though she were trying to rearrange them on her head. "I presume you're walking me?"

"Why would you presume anything else?"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go."

She reached down to grab her bag. As she straightened up, he sought her eyes with a stern gaze of his own. His eyebrows shot upward.

"I meant what I said, Granger. You'll eat four extra bites tonight. No excuses."

She shot him a decidedly sour look but remained silent. They headed for her next class.

He knew that she was just as toxic as he was, but he didn't care. If the venom turned his blood to acid, he would gladly let it melt him into something she could drink down. Maybe then it would melt her, too.

They could suffer together, just like they had in Paris.

* * *

After a relatively uneventful dinner—during which Hermione did indeed eat the extra four bites—they went back to the common room.

For a moment, it felt like it was the beginning of the year again. Hermione tucked away in another room with the door closed and him nodding off on the couch with a book open in his hands. This time, she was in her bedroom instead of the loo, and that made him feel better.

It was hard to believe that the entire time he'd thought the messy dishes and her being in the loo for forty-five minutes at a time was just her being a bit of a slob. When in reality, she was hurting herself. It was difficult to think about the fact that the Weaselbee had been treating her horribly as well.

And then there was Paris.

Sometimes, Draco had to remind himself the reason for all of this. Yes, she'd told him she first purged when she was in a younger year, but it seemed like the disorder hadn't fully taken hold until after the war. He remembered seeing her, Potter, and the Weaselbee on the front cover of the _Prophet_ , smiling with their arms around one another. He hadn't thought anything of it back then because he was under house arrest and much more focused on the trials.

Had her smile reached her eyes back then?

It felt like their lives had been falling apart for so long because of the war that he couldn't remember what she looked like before now. When he tried to remember Third Year, when she struck him and awakened the bond, her face was hazy, shrouded by grey. When he kissed her that first time in the alcove, he only remembered the way the flickering lantern light bounced off of her face. He remembered nothing after that. Only that he'd watched her memories like a Muggle film for years.

The only thing he remembered vividly was Paris. The sounds. The feelings. The pain. He remembered what it felt like to hear her sobbing in anguish. The way it felt to hear her trying to reason with the Muggle who raped her. The way it felt to kneel before her in that shower and wash her.

And he remembered telling her _no_ in that shower. He'd been able to recognize that six times was too many. Six washings would never erase what happened. He'd recognized that she needed him to put his foot down and say no. He'd said no, and she hadn't done anything other than let him carry her.

That's what she needed now.

Him to say no, so she would let him carry her.

Closing his book, he realized that he needed to at least check on her. He'd told her she could have her door shut until she cleaned the room, but it was probably best that he make sure she knew he was going to keep her on her toes.

He wasn't dumb. He knew she could clean her room with her wand.

 _She probably just wanted to get those last few days of privacy,_ he thought, shaking his head. _I could let it brass me off, but I think I'll just let it slide._

Hermione had done well that day. She'd plated her lunch and dinner by herself. He'd had to add more to her portions at dinner to match the ones he usually gave, but she hadn't fought it. She'd plated herself a wide variety of foods so that even though the portion sizes were small, they still filled the same size plate.

Honestly, he was quite proud of her. It was only two meals, but it was better than the past two days. If she kept this up—kept trying—then the new rules might actually do some good. Especially for their situationship.

He'd even kissed her outside the Great Hall, just because it was nice to see her smile again.

Draco didn't bother knocking. He didn't know if it was because he was so used to her simply walking into his room that week after Christmas, or if it was because something told him to just open the door. Either way, he turned the knob and entered.

The smell.

He staggered backward, a hand slapping over his mouth. His book slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, place lost and pages bent.

The _smell._

His gaze fell upon the bags first. Plastic bags from Hogsmeade and other shops he'd never heard of, littering the room and full of Hermione's sick. Next to them, containers that were supposed to be for storing food were full to the brim with more of her vomit. One container had spilled over, the remnants of the contents of her stomach clearly having been there for a long time.

 _Why wouldn't she vanish it?_ he thought, his horror and bewilderment forcing his thoughts to move in slow motion. _Why wouldn't she just vanish it?!_

Beside her on the floor was a large chest, wooden and like it was supposed to be for blankets. It was open. Inside rested food. All manner of packaged sweets and savory goods. All the things he'd seen her binge on and things that he hadn't. So much food that she had to have been collecting and hoarding it like a dragon with treasure for weeks. Months perhaps.

The fucking _smell_.

Draco had never been more simultaneously horrified and repulsed in his entire life.

Hermione sat in the center of her floor, wearing nothing but her brassiere and knickers. There was a mirror against the wall to the right of him that he could see she was simply watching herself in. She had a bag of crisps in one hand, and her other hand was carrying a singular blue tortilla up to her mouth. Now, it was frozen in midair.

Her eyes widened in stages as she realized that he was actually standing in her doorway and that he was looking at the most disgusting, heartbreaking sight. Perhaps worse than when he'd walked in on her purging. He didn't know.

Draco couldn't think. He wasn't sure whether to be furious or grieve the last piece of hope he had that she could get better without his help.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice wrestled into a whisper. Then, the panic exploded in her eyes. " _You can't be in here! Get out of my room!"_

"Granger," he said, his tone drawn-out as he stared at the physical representation of her self-hatred, contained in boxes and bags all over her bedroom. "What . . . The fuck . . . Is _this_?"


	38. Chapter 38

**TRIGGER WARNING: Toxicity that I would consider abuse. Force-feeding. ED content.**

**It crosses a line. What Draco does is NOT okay. To many women, it would be unforgivable. The point is to show you what is NOT okay in ED recovery.**

**The sad thing is MANY, MANY boyfriends, husbands, and fathers do this to their eating disordered family members when they are put in charge of their recovery. It is WRONG, and that is what I'm trying to showcase.**

**You WILL hate Draco for a while, I'm sorry.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Six**

"I haven't cleaned yet. No, I—I haven't cleaned yet."

Hermione scrambled to her feet, spilling the crisps everywhere as she started trying to gather the bags up by the handle. She picked one up and it broke on the bottom, spilling its contents out all over the carpet. The already rancid smell in the room intensified, growing acrid. They both stared at it, then at each other as though it were neither of their faults.

Draco stood there, indecision rooting him to the spot. Should he grab his wand and vanish it all? Should he wait and watch while she did it herself with her own wand? Should he clean it himself with his bare hands just to force her to face it?

The anger running through his veins told him to make _her_ do it.

Somehow, they both spotted her wand on the dresser at the same time. She whirled around and made a mad dash for it, but Draco was faster.

He was better at wandless spells, too.

" _Immobulus,"_ he hissed, vibrating with rage as he _accio_ ed her wand and stuck it in his back pocket. "When I nix this spell, Granger, do not even _try_ to get your wand back. Do you hear me?"

Frozen where she stood, he could see the look of absolute terror on her face. He knew that this was why she had requested extra time to clean her room. He should have known the reason was more sinister than a simple "mess."

Puzzle pieces were starting to shift in his mind, rearranging themselves to fit together.

Draco nixed the spell and turned, feeling his stomach lurch with nausea. He didn't know whether to walk back out into the hall or stay right where he was. The fact that he hadn't stepped in anything or knocked anything over was pure good fortune.

He didn't have any experience with this. His mother was messy, but not intentionally. Any time he cleaned up after her, it was the remnants that she had missed. He had found it odd that Narcissa always cleaned by hand and now, he wondered if there was some connection to the way Hermione had let the state of her room devolve into . . . This. The contrast of her neatly-made bed, clean dresser, and pristine vanity decorated with make-up and perfume bottles, to the filth that littered and soaked into her floor?

It was taking everything he had in him not to gag.

"Can I—I need to explain." She wrung her hands, standing there with a pile of empty chocolate bar wrappers on the floor next to her left foot and the bowl into where she'd rid herself of them next to her right.

"Granger, I'm going to be fucking sick," he growled. The air was thick—so thick that he felt like he could taste it. "There's nothing you can possibly say that could explain this."

"You don't understand," she whispered, her eyes wild in her head. "This is why I asked for a few days. I knew I had to clean it, and I knew it was going to take time, and I know I could have vanished it, but . . . But . . . I have to leave it so I—so I don't think it's _okay."_

Draco lowered his chin, giving her an incredulous look. "So . . . You know it's not okay, so you leave it?"

"Yes," she said, the hint of a whine lining her tone with desperation. "I have to face it. If I don't face it, then I'll think it's okay and I'll never . . ." She took a couple of deep breaths. Her hand trembled as she held it to her mouth. The other arm moved to cover her bare stomach.

Her bare stomach.

Draco's eyes widened as he took in the sight of her body. His heart stopped in his chest. Disturbing was the only word he could come up with.

As he stared at her, watching the tears filling her downcast eyes, his mind betrayed him. It presented him with horrifying scenarios, one right after the other, like an onslaught of attack spells. Hermione, keeling over in class, dead. Hermione, passing out in the Great Hall and never waking up. Hermione, falling asleep beside him in bed and him being unable to wake her the next morning no matter how hard he shook her.

He was disturbed and he just—he needed—

Spinning to face the dresser and the wall, he slammed his hands down on top of it. His chest heaved as he struggled to keep his supper down. This was almost too much. This was right at the limit for him.

She was going to die if he didn't fix this. _Now._ Like, _now_ now.

"You'll never _what_?" he asked, suppressing a shudder as the smell started to overwhelm him.

"Get better."

He stopped, letting the words sink in. "Okay. What does that mean?"

"I just—" She sounded like she was on the verge of hyperventilation. "Sometimes, I—sometimes, I want to do it in the middle of the night and I'm too tired to walk. So, I get out of bed, sit on the floor, and do it in here. And then I—I just—leave it. I leave it so I have to l-look at it, and smell it, and face it—and—and—and—"

"This is unacceptable," he said, turned to face her and slicing a hand through the air. "This is unac-fucking-ceptable, Granger. Why didn't you just _vanish_ it? Isn't the fact that you—" He gestured to her entire body. "—isn't _that_ enough to make you face it?!"

The words left his mouth and he didn't see anything wrong with them. He really didn't. His vision was clear.

He'd just forgotten that hers wasn't.

Hermione's face fell further into the Earth than it already had. Both of her arms wrapped around her stomach, as if it could hide her indecency and she hung her head. The last time Draco had seen her look so defeated and broken was in Paris.

Gods, his heart was _breaking_.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, embracing herself tight. "Why do you have to be so cruel to me? Why can't you have at least a little compassion?"

Draco thought he might go completely fucking mental.

"Are you _stupid_?!" he shouted, holding his hands to his temples and then spreading his arms wide. "Do you not see what I'm fucking standing in?! Your dorm room is _covered_ in vomit, Hermione! It smells like Thestral shite in here and some of this seems like it's _weeks_ old! Why do you not see a problem with this?!"

"I told you I needed a few days!" she cried, a tear slipping down her cheek that she quickly swiped away. "I didn't want anyone to see this, and that's why I asked for more time! You shouldn't have come into my room!"

"I'm the one that's taking care of you, so this room—this entire fucking _dorm_ —is _mine!_ "

"No one asked you to take care of me!" she shrieked, hands in fists at her sides. "I don't _want_ you to!"

"Well that's too damn bad!"

Hermione let out a cry of frustration and stormed across the room, barely looking below her. It was clear some of these containers and bags had been there for so long that she had the route memorized. She ripped her closet door open and yanked something off of a hanger. As she shoved it on over her head and the hem fell to the middle of her thighs, he recognized it as his hooded jumper.

"Oh, lovely," he snarled with vehemence, throwing his hand up. "And you've stolen my clothing."

"You never seemed to have a problem with it before."

"Well, now I'm wondering what else you've stolen."

She glared at him, pushing the long sleeves of the jumper up to her elbows. "I don't want to row anymore. Can you leave, so I can clean?"

"Absolutely not. You're cleaning this right now, right in front of me." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the dresser. "Get going."

Her jaw dropped, but then she snapped it shut and replaced her facial expression with one of haughtiness. She presented her right hand, palm-side up.

"Then I want my wand."

"No," he said. "You're doing it by hand."

"You want me to try to carry all of these . . . To where? It's not as if Hogwarts has dumpsters, Malfoy!"

Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his own wand and gave it a begrudging wave. A rubbish bin appeared near the open door. He crossed his arms again and jerked his chin toward it.

"You know how to throw things away, don't you?"

She glared at him. "There's no need to be unnecessarily rude on top of everything else. This is humiliating for me."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have done it."

"It's not that simple."

He bit his tongue. Hard. The urge to scream, " _Why not?!"_ burned so bright and hot inside of him that it felt like the sun was expanding inside of his chest.

Hermione began to move about the room, picking up bags by the handles and carrying them away from her body to the bin. There was a sour expression on her face, which he had no sympathy for. Why would she be revolted by something _she'd_ done? If she could let it get this bad, then she needed to be the one to clean it. After all, she'd said she wanted to face it . . .

_Wait._

The puzzle pieces clicked into place and suddenly, Draco saw the whole picture. He lifted his gaze from the floor, locking eyes with her as she dropped another container in with the others.

"This is why you put the wrappers into the couch, isn't it? And why you left the dirty dishes out?"

Her brow furrowed and she averted her gaze. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Try to," he said, holding his hands palm side down with fingers splayed. "Because I need to understand this, all right? I need to understand it, or I'm going to go fucking mental."

She took a deep breath, like she was pulling all of the emotions to the surface where they could start to churn. Then, she let it out, pulling those emotions back down inside of her where they couldn't take her under.

"The reason why I put the wrappers into the couch was so that every time you or I sat down on the cushions, I would know they were there. The reason why I left the dirty dishes everywhere is because it made you so angry that you treated me poorly, and I deserved it. The reason why I left all of this in the room is because no matter where you or I were in the dorm, I would know it was here.

"It's humiliating. I knew it would absolutely mortify me if you ever caught me, and that's why I did it." She held her upper left arm with her right hand. "Knowing that I would be humiliated if you ever saw me leaving this all here reminds me that it's not normal. I leave it so that no matter how sick I get, I'll always have something to remind me to that I don't want to be."

Draco stared at her.

In a weird way, it made perfect sense. It was a reminder. A fail-safe. Something to keep her aware of the fact that what she was doing wasn't right. That it was dangerous and that at its core, she was ashamed of it. And while he wanted to think that it was in some way a good thing that she wanted to have that last thing to protect her from herself, he didn't want to feel anything positive. Not for this, and not anymore.

But it felt like another milestone. A milestone where there otherwise shouldn't have been.

This was the first time he'd ever heard her say she wanted to get better.

"Okay," he said, placing his hands on the front edge of the dresser by his hips, his elbows bent from the way he was leaning against it. "Finish up."

She nodded, her face uncharacteristically blank as she continued to clean up the remnants of her shame. It was hard for him to watch her picking it up, getting tired from the effort, and stopping to catch her breath. She looked _and_ sounded like she was about to fall apart, but he wasn't going to let her. Whether it was because he cared or because he was angry, he wasn't sure.

When the floor was finally clean, he pulled her wand out of his pocket and held it out to her. His facial expression remained stern, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as she drew closer. Then, when she was right in front of him, he pulled the wand back.

"This?" he said, eyebrows rising up. "Never happening again. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"You can vanish the—it off of the floor."

He gave her the wand and watched as she cast the spell. After another charm to remove the pungent smell, the carpet was as pristine as the rest of the room. Then, she turned to face him, lifting her chin so she could look him in the eyes.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked.

"Very."

She hung her head and whispered, "I'm so ashamed."

He frowned. She needed to feel this, this shame. She needed to feel it so that she could really understand what was wrong with the way she'd let everything go in her room. But somewhere beneath the anger he felt, he could feel something else. Something that ran deeper.

"Granger," he said.

She looked up at him again.

"I'm proud of you," he said. "I'm proud that you recognize you don't want to be sick. I . . . I thought that—"

"That I enjoyed this?" Her voice was as bitter as the air in the room had felt not ten minutes ago. "No. I don't enjoy this. If I could go back to the girl I was before everything got so bad, then I would. I just don't know how."

Draco took a step closer, lifting a hand with hesitancy. Then, he brushed the backs of his forefingers across her cheekbone, sinking them into the depths of her twists. Her eyelids fluttered, like it was painful or filled her with an ache that nothing could satisfy.

"Stop trying to get someone back who doesn't exist anymore," he said. "You've gotta learn how to be okay with the person you are now, and the person you're gonna be."

"What's the point?" she whispered. "I don't want to mourn myself. I'm not dead. I don't _want_ to feel that way."

"Maybe you have to. Maybe that's just the way it is, and you have to learn how to accept that. Maybe you have to mourn the person you were before Paris."

She didn't say anything, but it wasn't necessary. Draco knew what she was terrified of. He knew what the dirty dishes and the bags full of sick and the wrappers in the couch represented. He knew they were the only reminder she had that it wasn't normal to feel so empty. He knew that if she accepted herself now, that would mean giving up the only barrier she had protecting her from the memory of that alleyway. It would mean taking what she knew and ripping it into shreds that she could actually stomach. Small pieces she could eat one-by-one that wouldn't overwhelm her into wanting to get rid of them.

His mother had left a mess behind, with her dishes and her own mistakes in the loo. He'd thought it was because they had House Elves. He'd even thought she'd somehow figured out that he was the one cleaning it up. Now, he wondered if maybe his mother had trouble accepting her lot in life, too. The hardest part was knowing that he would never receive an answer to that question, no matter how badly he wanted it.

Draco had to decide if he wanted to help Hermione rip her pieces up, or if he wanted to stand there and watch her fight to remain empty.

_Sometimes, I don't even want to watch._

_Sometimes, I just want to walk away._

He turned away and left the room, his fingers sliding along her soft skin as though they couldn't bear to be apart until the last moment.

* * *

Thursday dawned on Draco's surly disposition.

He wasn't sure exactly how to pinpoint why he was angry with Hermione. He knew he had good reason to be revolted by what he'd seen and he'd managed to stay relatively calm during her explanations, but now that he'd had a chance to sleep on it, he wasn't sure he could remain that way.

It had been _months_. _Months_ that she'd let that shite sit in there, rotting and sinking into the soul of that room. Though it was now clean, it would forever have the imprint of the ghost of Hermione's self-destruction. It had probably witnessed her breaking down again and again and again. Watched her open the lid to that large wooden chest, sit down with a snack of some sort, and binge in front of the mirror.

He wanted to be angry for a reason, but he couldn't think of one. Her leaving the food there was disgusting, but it was _her_ room—he'd never asked for permission to enter. Her body was her own, and her binging and purging was not something he could be inherently angry at.

Draco had every right to be livid with her for whatever it was she'd manipulated him with or for, but did he have the right to be angry with her for feeling so lonely that she purged into containers in her room? Was he within his rights to be angry that she hadn't cleaned it up? It wasn't like he'd smelled it or had any idea it was there. At least, not until he barged into her room uninvited.

Is that how far they'd fallen in such a short time? Him setting rules, taking her doors away, invading her privacy? Yelling at her, giving her things to cry about, plating her meals for her? Watching her. Following her. Controlling her.

Like a parent.

He sat up shirtless in bed, hunched over with his head hung between his hands. His stomach roiled with a nausea that he couldn't quite place. A bit of disgust with himself mixed with his overwhelming desire to force her to live. To force her to live to see a life with him where she was happy and healthy, with the memory of Paris far in her past.

It was all about him, wasn't it?

Maybe he was just angry with himself.

After doing one more search for his elusive bag of weed and finding nothing, he threw on a hooded jumper colored dark grey, black denims with rips in the knees, and his boots. He absolutely had not one single fuck to give about the dress code and would not be wearing his robes today. He couldn't be arsed when school rules and the possibility of detention paled in comparison to the level of stress he was under.

Grabbing his satchel, he walked out into the common room to wait for Hermione, who he could hear in the bathroom. His bag hanging off of his left shoulder, he slipped his forefingers into his front pockets and perched on the back of the couch with one leg outstretched. His shoulders slouched, the exhaustion pulling him downward. His hair fell into his eyes.

He was desperate for today to be as calm as possible.

Hermione exited the loo, flicking off the light as she went. Draco, who was in the process of rubbing his right eye, looked at her. She'd taken her twists out and used magic to do a new hairstyle—hundreds of tiny braids that cascaded out of her scalp, with her edges laid and the same silver beads that she'd had before adorning them. The braids swung to her hips. She looked beautiful.

But at the same time, there was something dark and hideous twisting beneath her appearance. It was in the hollowness of her cheeks and the emptiness of her eyes. The slow way she moved that ached of something much deeper than weakness. She looked like the person she was—the person she was trying so desperately to get back—had already wasted away.

She glanced down the hallway, then did a double take.

"You're already ready?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak lest he betray his morbid thoughts. Looking at her, it felt like he could still smell her room.

"Oh," she said. "Well, let me just get out of my pyjamas, and then we can go to breakfast. Seems like we both woke up late."

"Yeah."

She bit her lower lip, her gaze scrutinizing him, and then she disappeared into her dorm room. She left the door open.

Draco cursed under his breath and turned his face to the right, toward the portrait. How was he supposed to act around her now that he'd seen her at her worst? How was he supposed to talk to her without thinking about the fact that she could exist within the confines of a room for _months_ while her sick festered around her, rotting into the carpet? Anyone who could do that . . . Anyone who could simply let that _go_?

Someone like that might be too far gone to help.

She exited her dorm, braids whipping out as she spun to turn off her light. As she came down the hallway, wearing her robes closed, he saw that they trailed on the ground behind her just a tad too much. It was almost like she was wearing a dress.

Was that because they were too big for her?

"Ready?" she asked, hugging her arms around her books. Her eyebrow arched. "Are you in pain?"

He flinched. "Wait . . . What?"

"Your brows look like this." She scrunched her face up like she was angry and pinched. It was cute, but Draco felt too conflicted to do much more than let his lips twitch upward. "You look churlish."

"Oh, churlish, huh?" He huffed and lowered his gaze. He hadn't felt this much discomfort creeping under his skin since the Dark Lord walked the halls of the Manor. It didn't feel right, not where Hermione was concerned. His hand clenched some of her robes, tugging. "Come here."

Hermione was pulled to stand between his legs. She leaned over to balance her books on the back of the couch next to Draco's hip. Then, her hand pressed flat to his chest. Her teeth pressed into her lower lip as she searched his eyes.

" _I'd dream forever if you were here with me."_

Here she was, that beautiful girl with the braids, standing before him. They weren't dreaming, but every time he looked at her, his heart leapt to the stars. He wished they could go into his dream world—the world where her smile reached her eyes and she laughed like she was happy—and stay.

Draco tilted his chin up, his lips meeting hers as his hands found her waist through her robes. He hardly moved, barely touched her at all as she threw herself into the kiss with a gusto that he hadn't expected from her. Hermione placed one hand on his shoulder and wrapped the other around his neck. Pulling her body tight to his where he sat on the back of the couch, he felt her tongue dipping into his mouth. It was neither exploratory nor familiar. She was just tasting him.

His right hand slid up the back of her robes.

_Fuck._

He felt so strange.

Gods. Kissing her hurt. It hurt so fucking badly that it felt like a demon was squeezing his lungs.

It just didn't feel . . . Right.

He turned his face away, his hand sliding down her arm as he stood up straight. "Why don't we just eat breakfast here? We're already late. By the time we get there, it'll be half over."

"Are you sure?" she asked, patting the side of her head with the heel of her palm. It looked like it itched. "Do you really want to cook?"

"No, but I'm tired," he said in a monotone. He let his bag fall to the floor and then moved past her to the kitchenette. "I don't feel like being around all those people."

She went to the table and sat down. The silence that stretched between them while he used his wand to cook the food was almost awkward in the way it seemed as thin and as strong as a spider's silvery webbing. It would hold, provided something didn't destroy it.

He floated their plates to the round table and took his seat across from her. After conjuring forks with a wave of his hand, he began to eat. After he was onto his third bite, he realized she hadn't picked up her fork yet.

This was beyond exhausting.

"Eat," he said without looking up.

"But . . . You cooked it in butter."

His head pulled back on his shoulders. "What does that matter?"

"It's just . . ." Her fingernails tapped on the table. "I usually cook them in olive oil."

"And that's my problem, how?"

"I can't have butter."

Draco could feel it coming—the ire. It was always there now, lurking underneath him. This was just another one of her stupid excuses. This was the fourth day that he'd been trying to take control of the situation, and it felt like it had been months. He couldn't _do_ this forever.

"Granger," he said, closing his eyes against his ire-filled countenance. "You do _not_ want me to come to your side of the table."

She bristled at that. "Or else, what? What are you gonna do? Hit me?"

Draco was over it. He'd had enough. Hermione had taken him to the edge of his limit. He couldn't take another second of this shite.

Slamming his fork down, he scooted his chair back, rising to his feet. She glared up at him as he leaned over the table with his hands flat on top of it. He held her gaze, his face calm.

"Eat your breakfast. I'm not going to do this every single day with you. You're going to eat three meals a day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Those are your meals— _that's_ the way it's gonna be. You don't get to walk to class alone. You don't get to have the doors shut. You don't get to purge. _That's_ your life now. So, eat."

She pursed her lips, the panic and thoughts swirling together in her eyes. He could tell that she was hunting through her mind for something—anything she could use to get out of this. Any excuse.

He was so fucking tired.

Draco rounded the table, his right hand lashing out and wrapping in the braids at the back of her head. She cried out, looking frightened as he snatched up her fork and speared a large bite of scrambled eggs with it. He could already feel her shaking, trying to escape. Her hands moved up near her shoulders in a defensive pose.

"Wait—wait, I don't—"

Draco cut her off, holding the fork up near her lips.

"Open your fucking mouth."

"No."

" _Open_ your _fucking_ mouth!" he shouted.

"No!" she cried, looking simultaneously bewildered and nauseous.

"Open it, or I'm going to _imperio_ you and make you eat until you're so fucking full you can't even breathe." He tightened his hold on her hair to punctuate, his mind completely white.

She closed her eyes and kept her mouth firmly sewn shut.

Draco snapped.

Twisting her braids around his hand until she screamed in pain, he shoved the fork into her mouth. She closed her lips around it on instinct, looking up at him with eyes that implored him to stop. She whimpered. Whether from the pain on her scalp or the feeling of the food on her tongue, he didn't know.

Her eyes were starting to water, but how could he care?

They could be fake.

"Chew," he ordered.

She did, her eyes squeezing shut. A tear escaped.

He slid the fork out of her mouth and grabbed some more.

"Please," she begged. "Draco, please. I'll eat it. Just don't—not again."

He held the fork up to her, his heart cold and done. "Open."

" _Please_."

"Open."

Trembling as though she were stuck outside in the snow, she opened her mouth with slow reluctance. He slid it into her mouth again and this time, she chewed.

"I can do it myself," she whispered, her head pulling against his hold. "Please. Draco, _please_."

Her pleas fell upon deaf ears. They had to. He couldn't let her control this anymore. He couldn't let her get away with anything. She'd had her chance to do this her way, and she'd fucked it up. She'd had her chance to prove she could be trustworthy, and she'd _fucked_ it _up_.

_I'm so fucking tired._

The fork returned to her mouth.

The tears continued to fall down to splash against the table. Her trembling grew more violent, until her legs were shaking. Something about the way she was breathing seemed distant yet familiar.

"Come on," he said, holding up the next bite. "Open up and eat it."

"Why are you doing this to me?" she cried, her hand knuckle-white as it wrapped around his wrist, trying to stop him. "What did I do _wrong_? _Draco_ —"

Hermione's sobs overwhelmed her, and the fork in her mouth shut her up.

Draco managed to get her to eat two more bites before she tried to turn her face toward him. She gasped out apologies, apologies that chipped away at the ice cage that surrounded him.

"I'm so sorry," she kept saying, her lashes clinging together with tears. "I'll eat. I'll eat. I'm so, so sorry."

He looked into her eyes, seeing a depth of emotion there that he'd only ever seen before in . . . In . . .

"Draco, please. I'll do _anything_." She was crying so hard that she was on the verge of hyperventilation. He'd never felt her shake this badly. "I'll do anything, just please let me do it myself. I'm _begging_ you."

. . . The shower at Paris.

Distant. Yet familiar.

His heart shattered, the way it should have five minutes ago. The way it always did around her. The way it deserved to now that he'd effectively violated the sanctity of her body just to get her to eat. There was no excuse. There was no excuse, but he'd just been so fucking _tired_.

And he hated himself.

He dropped the fork and stumbled back a step, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He didn't feel like himself. It was more than toxicity. It was wrong. It was dark. The way she sat there, hugging her arms around herself, chin to chest as she sobbed like a small child. The way she looked as broken as she did in that hotel room.

Who did he think he _was_?

Who had her disorder turned him _into_?

What had she _done_ to his heart?

" _I'll do anything. I'm begging you.'_

Draco had never wanted to hear words like that directed at him from anyone's lips. Especially not hers.

He slammed back against the edge of the stove, scrubbing his face violently with his hands. He felt like a shadow. A shell of a monster who didn't deserve to function or breathe. And she was just sitting there, sobbing as she picked up the fork and failed thrice to pick eggs up with it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, cringing away when he took a step closer. She couldn't look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm doing it. I'm trying."

He watched in somber silence while she ate the rest of the eggs and nibbled at the bacon. She was as pale as taupe, her face splotched red from how hard she was crying. Her hands shook hard enough that she looked like she was hypothermic. He'd traumatized her.

These tears weren't fake.

Draco couldn't look at her when he only saw his own mistakes. All the wrong choices, combined into one crying witch. He was such a fucking failure.

He sat on the couch while she sobbed halfway through their first period.

And he hated himself.

* * *

Draco couldn't focus on any of his classes for the rest of the day.

He couldn't stand himself. He couldn't stand the person he was, nor the person he'd become. He was disgusting. Worse than disgusting. He couldn't get the sounds of her weeping out of his head.

What he'd done was wrong. Forcing her to eat, shoving it down her throat. Treating her like property, like she had no say over her own body. Taking her autonomy away.

He couldn't understand why he'd let himself lose control that way, and he didn't know how to cope with the intense amount of self-hatred that coursed through his veins for hours. It felt like it would never ebb. It was suffocating him.

In Charms, he couldn't even make it all the way through. With her sitting next to Pansy at the front of the room with her back slouched and head down, he was forced to see how viscerally he'd affected her. It was like he'd broken her into nothing.

He had to get up to hide in the loo for fifteen solid minutes while he broke down in a stall and sobbed into his hands.

This was like Sixth Year. A nearly-unsolvable problem with no clear-cut path to the solution. Him making random stabs in the dark, hitting flesh every time, and turning on the light to find he'd stabbed the ones he cared about over and over and over. He was so overwhelmed.

It was her room. It had to be. Seeing the state of it had forced him to face just how unwell she was. All this time, he'd thought she was getting somewhere. That he was helping her.

Instead, she'd just been hiding a graveyard beneath her skirts. It was the reason why she wouldn't let him sweep her around the ballroom.

It would have exposed the truth.

"I can't fucking do this," he whispered to himself in the stall as he rocked back and forth, his fingers deep in his hair and tears leaking off of the tip of his nose. "I can't do this. I can't fucking—"

He broke off into more sobs. Sobs that took a hook and wrenched his gut out through his mouth, leaving him emptier than the black expanse that stretched between stars. He didn't even have the energy to cast a _muffliato_ , a _silencio_ , anything. There was nothing left of him.

When he sucked everything back inside of him and went to the mirrors, he hunched over one sink with his hands braced along its porcelain edges. Taking several deep, gasping breaths, he looked at himself. When his silver eyes locked with themselves in his reflection, rimmed in red from weeping and bloodshot from exhaustion, he felt like he couldn't recognize himself.

He saw his tattoos peeking over the collar of his shirt, seeming to creep up his neck like tendrils of shadow. The roses and chains that signified just how trapped he'd felt watching her burn on his Drawing Room floor. How he felt now, watching her burn herself alive every time she purged. How he would feel for the rest of his life, watching her continue to burn as she did everything in her power to maintain that control.

It felt like the chains were alive, wrapping around to strangle him.

Pulling his hood up onto his head, he went back to class. Flitwick was at his desk while the rest of the class practiced a new charm with one another.

"You seem to have forgotten the dress code today, Mr. Malfoy," Flitwick said, peering up over his glasses at him. "Borderline Muggle clothing and holes in the knees of your trousers? Unacceptable."

Draco glanced over at Hermione, who wasn't doing anything. Her wand still laid on her desk. She merely watched Pansy perform the spell. Pansy, who had a perturbed expression on her face as she studied Hermione while twirling her wand.

Salazar, Hermione looked so hollow.

Pansy's head snapped to the right. She raised one eyebrow to Draco and shook her head.

'What's wrong with her?' she mouthed. 'Did you guys break up?'

Draco ignored her, turning to Flitwick. "How many points are you taking?"

"Well, I'm going to have to take the standard dress code infraction amount, I'm afraid. Fifty from Slytherin. You may take your seat. Oh, and Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco fought the urge to scowl, rolling his head a bit to look back at the professor so his hood wouldn't fall off.

Flitwick's facial expression was knowing and stern. "Next time you go to the loo and come back with red eyes, I'm going to send you to Madam Pomfrey. Better to send you there to double check, than to jump and tell Headmistress McGonagall that you've got Muggle narcotics on Hogwarts grounds."

Draco walked past Pansy's seat, his gaze meeting hers one final time. Her jaw went slack and her eyebrows rose.

She could tell he'd been crying.

Instead of taking Hermione to the Great Hall for lunch, he walked them back to the common room. He didn't want Pansy asking questions, and it felt like he needed to be inside of their own world. Things were very, very fragile with Hermione, if they weren't already destroyed. He couldn't deal with everyone intruding.

Hermione said nothing to him. She didn't even look like herself. She simply walked into the kitchenette and prepared them both a balanced meal from the refrigerator and pantry. He didn't dare look at her, even when she set his plate in front of him.

As they both ate in silence, he realized he was no better than Ron.

By the time dinner rolled around, he felt like his brain had completely dissolved. Divination had been a nightmare. Not only had Blaise and Pansy tried to send him note after note, begging him to talk to them and tell them what happened, but he turned each one to ash and kept his eyes on Trelawney.

During Demonstration, things got worse.

Apparently, Trelawney wanted them to try magical core soul connections that day. That meant that with their table partners, they were supposed to hold hands, look deep into one another's eyes, and open their magical cores.

The point of the exercise was to understand how though everyone had their own core, magic as an element of the universe was cosmic in nature. No matter the blood status, any being with a magical core could find commonality amongst their souls. Having a taste of what it felt like to tandem cast was only a bonus.

It had taken Hermione thirty seconds of hesitation to shakily place her hands in his. They felt frail and tense, like she wanted to yank them back at any second. He was the second one to lift their gaze from the table, his shame having tried to keep it cast downward. Looking across the small table at her, hearing the drone of Trelawney asking them to _open their hearts, minds, and magic,_ Draco realized that something had been irreparably damaged between them.

 _I hate myself,_ he said with his eyes. _I fucking hate myself._

Her eyes showed nothing but a void, but when they opened their cores to one another, it caused them both to gasp. Her back straightened, going rigid. Draco felt magic thrumming up through his core and through their fingers, bounding back and forth between the two of them like a Patronus weaving them together. His hands tightened around hers as the intensity of it coiled his muscles tight.

They were the only two in the room to manage a successful connection.

"We need to talk," he said to her when class was over and everyone was packing up to leave. "In the common room."

She averted her eyes from his and nodded, dead silent.

"Hey, are you two coming to the Great Hall?" Pansy appeared in front of them both, Blaise flanking her.

"No, we're going back to our dorms tonight," Draco drawled, his hood still up as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

Blaise narrowed his eyes, studying Draco in a way that told him he could sense something was really, really off. As if he couldn't tell by the way Hermione-the-Golden-Girl-Granger was staring at the floor with her arms hugging her books like a shy schoolgirl. But Draco didn't want to look at him or talk to him. He didn't want to do anything except go back to the common room.

"Well, are you two still coming to London?" Pansy asked, her gaze washing up and down Hermione's body. "The Hogwarts Express comes in at eleven tomorrow morning."

Draco didn't say anything for a second. It was so painfully normal that it didn't quite fit in their abnormal world. After what he'd done to her this morning, they were just going to go to London? With _Theo_ there? As if they needed _that_ drama.

But when he looked over at Hermione, saw how she sort-of perked up at the reminder, his heart squeezed.

"Yeah," he said. "We're going."

"Oh, excellent." Pansy clapped her hands together. "It's going to be so much fun. We're staying at The Savoy, and Blaise got you two your own suite next to ours.

The Savoy, Draco knew about. It was a Muggle hotel, but it had a second lobby and three entire floors at the top that were only visible to the wizarding world. He'd stayed there with his parents multiple times.

"You didn't need to do that," Draco drawled to Blaise. "I'm not _destitute_."

"No, but I remember you telling me you were trying to stretch things out." Blaise placed a hand on his shoulder as they stood in the now-empty classroom. "Think of it like an early graduation present, or a late Christmas gift. Whichever."

The friendliness in his eyes was enough to pull Draco's lips into a slight smile. He didn't have the energy to be snarky.

"Thanks, mate."

Blaise gave him a strange look, apparently able to tell that something was wrong. "Uh . . . You're welcome."

Pansy cut in. "The two of you can take all of Friday after lunch to spend alone together, but we'll all get together in the morning on Saturday for breakfast. Then, we're going to a wizarding museum that details the complete history of the wizarding world's relationship with the fey. It was McGonagall's stipulation—we had to make some part of the trip educational. After dinner, we're finally going to that nightclub we never went to before Christmas."

"That sounds interesting." Hermione's voice came from the left, quiet and unsure. "The museum."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be," Pansy said. "Circe knows my family never let me learn anything outside of school about them. Blood purism and all."

"What about Theo?" Draco asked, not looking at her. "Is he still coming?"

"He's got his own room, and he's coming on Saturday," Blaise explained, exchanging a knowing glance with Draco. He apparently shared the same sentiments about him that Draco did. "He didn't want to miss school."

As the four of them started walking toward the door to leave, the girls in front and boys at the back, Draco felt his mouth going dry with dread. He didn't know which was worse: an entire day in London alone with Hermione when she could barely look at him, or an entire day in London with Theo tagging along after the horrid things they'd said to one another.

"I can't believe McGonagall's letting us go on a school day, anyway," Pansy said when they were in the stairwell, heading down. "It pays to be Eighth Years, I suppose."

"It may also have been Granger's name on your request form," Blaise said with a smirk. He looked ahead at Hermione. "Hope you don't mind there, Miss Quiet."

"Huh?" Hermione looked back over her shoulder, sounding almost as dazed as Luna Lovegood. "Oh, yes. That'll do the trick."

Pansy and Blaise both laughed, but Draco didn't. He couldn't.

Everything was so beyond fucked up.


	39. Chapter 39

**TRIGGER WARNING: GASLIGHTING. MAJOR GASLIGHTING. Emotional abuse (borderline? I'm not sure. I think it's emotional abuse).**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Seven**

They eventually went their separate ways after promising to meet at the train platform in the morning.

Pansy and Blaise's voices echoed in the corridor, their happy chatter following Draco and Hermione as they walked to their shared common room. At the portrait, Dumbledore's concerned expression caught Draco off guard. The late Headmaster was looking down at Hermione.

Had the portrait heard what Draco had done?

" _Apricus_ ," Draco mumbled.

The portrait didn't open. The concerned expression on the Headmaster's face leveled to meet Draco's, where it darkened and turned stormy. Gone was the docile expression that he always wore. Gone was the same serenity that had been in his eyes when he looked at Draco on the night of his death.

He looked angry.

"I'm not gonna hurt her," Draco said, whispering the words as he stared at the ground.

The portrait remained shut.

Hermione stepped out from behind Draco, and he saw her looking up into the Headmaster's oil-painted eyes. "Please, Headmaster Dumbledore. Let him inside."

The Headmaster looked back at her, his brows pulling together with his worry. It was clear that he had, in fact, heard their argument. Draco wasn't sure he wouldn't be hearing another one.

Hermione took another step forward, still hugging her books. Then, she turned her head and glanced up at Draco. He felt his heart skip a beat. She spoke softly.

"I feel safe with him."

As he looked into her eyes, he realized with devastating clarity that she shouldn't.

The portrait finally swung open, and they were able to enter.

The common room felt oddly empty without the Christmas tree and all the decorations. It was like it had been before December, but with any possible life within it sucked out. There was an awkward air about them as they made their way to the dining area and the kitchenette. Hermione set her books on the table while Draco dropped his bag onto the floor beside his usual chair. They looked at one another.

"I'll make dinner," he murmured, turning to go to the refrigerator.

It was full to the brim, the House Elves having restocked it with everything they possibly could. It was almost too hard to select something. Growing up in the Manor, he'd never had to learn to cook and even with magic, he had a hard time with some things. One thing he _was_ good at was chicken, so he pulled out some thighs and got to work.

When supper was in the oven, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the sink. His hood was still up and he had yet to take his boots off. The air had changed, shifting into something different and alive. The time for silence had ended.

Hermione cleared her throat.

"How was your day?" she asked.

 _Horrific._ "Fine. Yours?"

"It was all right." Her fingernails drummed on the table as she rested her chin in her hand. Some of her long braids fell forward over the front of her body. "Are you excited to go to London?"

"I guess," he said, feeling somewhat irritated. How could she want to chat like this, like nothing had happened between them this morning? Like he hadn't absolutely, unequivocally crossed the line? "Are you?"

"Yes," she said, but her voice was strained. "An entire day together after lunch. It sounds . . . Nice."

"Yeah." Absentmindedly, to deal with the anxiety, he placed one hand on the top of his hood, feeling it as he sighed. "It'll be nice."

"I think so."

Another tense silence. There were at least forty minutes to go on the chicken.

Hermione spoke again. "Have you heard anything about your internship?"

"My internship?" He shot her a scathing look. "What are you talking about? There's nothing to hear—I'm in. I start right after graduation."

By the way she flinched back, he could tell he'd been rude. He hadn't meant to treat her like she was unintelligent for asking, but he couldn't understand how she could just sit there and try to make things normal when there was no going back.

"How do you plan to use the internship for your future career?" she asked. "How does becoming an Unspeakable work with opening a company? I was confused about it."

 _What the fuck? Why does she want to_ talk _about this?_

"It's not like that. The Unspeakable career is for me. A typical Unspeakable career track lasts twenty-five years, and then you can retire. The company would deal with the Muggle stock market, investments. Things like that." He really was annoyed now. He didn't feel like talking about this, nor like explaining it. "I wouldn't run it—I'd let others run it. The company would be for my family name and fortune."

"That's clever," she said, chin still in hand.

Draco could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't move. His hands curved around the front edge of the counter at his hips as he remained leaning against it. The sole of his right foot was flat against the cupboard door behind him, his toes against the floor. Though his stance was nonchalant, his energy was pulled taut as a wire.

"I know," he grumbled. "Did you think I didn't know what I was doing?"

"No," she protested. "That's not it at all. I was just curious."

They existed in more silence. Hermione glanced out at the dining area, towards the window in the common room. She sighed.

"The moon's full tonight. It looks pretty."

"Hm," he responded.

"Draco?"

"Hm?" He was staring at the oven door.

"Before we talk about whatever it was you wanted to discuss, I have to come clean about something . . ."

Alarmed, Draco's gaze snapped up and narrowed on her. "What did you do?"

"I—wait." She opened her mouth, then glowered at him. "What do you mean, ' _what did I do_?'"

"You just said you needed to come clean."

"Why are you being so . . . So _cruel_?" She stood up from her chair, one hand on the tabletop and the other on her hip. "I was trying to be honest with you!"

"Just tell me what it is already," he snapped, turning away again.

She said nothing, choosing instead to stomp off to the hallway. Disappearing into it, she didn't come out. In fact, she was gone for so long that he presumed she had decided not to speak to him like he'd wanted, and had decided to stay in her room until dinner. But when she returned ten minutes later with her hands at her sides and a wary facial expression, he saw that he was wrong.

Hermione came to stand beside him. She'd changed into the jumper of his she'd stolen and a pair of leggings, and her feet were bare. Her braids were pulled over the front of one shoulder.

"Hold out your hand," she bit out.

He did, giving her a onceover for good measure.

Into it, she placed the missing bag of weed. As soon as it was in his palm, he took a second look at her. Her eyes were unfocused, the veins stained red. She was high.

"You stole my weed."

She gave him a curt nod. "Yes. I stole your weed while you were asleep Monday night. Our doors were open, so."

He felt confused. Confused, irritated, and angry. Why would she want the weed when she'd only ever smoke-shared with him via their mouths? It was annoying that she didn't look remorseful, and he was livid. What in the fuck had given her the impression that he'd be okay with her stealing his weed after the day they'd had Monday?

"Anything _else_ you need to come clean about?" he snarled, taking the bag and shoving it into the back pocket of his ripped denims. "Perhaps the fact that you're fucking blazed right now? Perhaps the fact that you just went into your room to smoke more of it before you returned it to me?"

She simply stared at him. "I deserved it after what you put me through."

"It's _mine_."

"I thought _I_ was."

Just like that, anger slammed through him, eradicating any traces of guilt he'd been feeling since that morning. If she wanted to go toe-to-toe, then he would.

"Except that Theo said you can't wait to be rid of me, remember?" he snapped, looming over her in the kitchenette. "By that logic, everything we've ever done together is a waste of time because if you had the fucking choice, you wouldn't even be here!"

She opened her mouth, but no sounds came forth. It was apparent to Draco that she was confused. Then, she tousled her braids and turned away from him, walking back to her seat at the table. She sat down heavy on the wood, resting one forearm on the tabletop as she stared across the common room.

Finally, she spoke.

"You're right. I wouldn't have chosen this for myself. I would not have chosen you. You were someone who hurt me time and time again before the war ever started. Any hope of redemption that I had for you was eradicated that afternoon at the Manor, when you just . . ." She shrugged and lowered her gaze to the linoleum beneath Draco's feet. "When you just stood there and watched. Before that day, I had already taken what you made me feel and put it away somewhere else. The fact that you were too cowardly to do anything other than just watch your aunt torture me took the already weak image I had of you in my mind, and broke it. If it were up to me? No, I would not be here. I would not be bonded to you. I wouldn't choose you."

Her gaze finally met his, slicing across the dim lighting and reaching directly through the pain her words were causing. There were tears in her eyes, tears that were difficult to look at because he didn't want to take the time to decipher how genuine they were.

"But that was before the night I found out what Ron cheated on me. It was before I drank the tea. It was before you came into my life and fought so hard for me, even though I haven't wanted to fight for myself since August. Draco, I've told you before and I'm telling you again now that you are the only person I trust. You are the _only_ person that I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don't want you to go _anywhere_."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut as he looked to the left, towards the wall. Tremors wracked his body as he fought back the urge to break down again. Her words were everything he'd wanted to hear for so long, but how could they mean anything when _he_ didn't trust _her_?

He clenched his teeth, trying not to let the words sink in too deep. He couldn't tell if anything she said was true any longer. He didn't know if she was manipulating him to believe something by tearing him down and building him back up again. What if this was all just part of the same tired ruse she'd been seemingly playing since the beginning? How was he supposed to know who she really was?

"How can you say that?" he breathed, and then he whirled to face her, one hand on the counter and the other thrown into the air. "How can you say that, when your life might not even last as long as next Winter? How can you sit there and tell me with your whole chest that you want to spend the rest of it with me, when the rest of it might only be six months? Two weeks? Three days? I mean, _fuck_ , Granger."

"Stop it!" she cried, her brows knitting together with her beseeching expression. "Whether the rest of my life is—is two days or—or one hour, or even if it's ten years—it still means the same thing. I still mean what I say." She got up from the chair and took a step toward him. "I'm saying that even if I died tomorrow, I'd want to spend my last day with you."

"Don't say that," he hissed, glaring down at her. "Don't you fucking say that. You're _not_ gonna die tomorrow."

She took another step closer. "I'm trying to tell you the way I feel, and all you care about is _your_ fears. You can't live your entire life in fear of something horrible happening, and then expect me to do better than you! If you're scared, then I have every right to be scared, too."

"And what are you scared of, huh?!" he shouted, towering over her. "What the bloody Hell are you scared of? You're not the one who has to go to bed every night, terrified. I put my head on that pillow every night _terrified_ that you won't be here when I wake up. And there'll be nothing—no amount of—of begging or pleading or protecting or—or—or _anything_ that I can do to keep that from happening. And then I find out that you're a fucking _liar_ on top of it all? You can say whatever you want, but I don't believe you."

Her face crumpled and one of the tears that had been brewing in her eyes escaped the cauldron of her lower lashlines. "I'm telling you the truth. I want to be with you. I _want_ to be here!"

He came toward her, and she shrank back against the table.

"You don't want me, Granger. You don't want eternity. You don't want to be anywhere else other than on your fucking knees with your fingers down your throat!"

"No." Her head shook from left to right, her denial as palpable as the tension in the air. "You're wrong."

"Yes, you do," he shot back, his voice rank with his distaste for her right then. "Yes, you fucking do."

"No—"

"Don't deny it. You—"

" _No_! No, I—"

"That's the one thing you want. That's the _only_ thing you want."

"No, it's not! No!" Her voice rose to a high octave, her tears coming faster. " _No_!"

"You told me yourself that you didn't want to get better." He pointed at her again, seething in his own insistence. "You want to be sick. You like being sick. You like the attention it gets you, and you like the way it feels to hurt people so they match the way you feel inside."

She slammed her hands over her temples, plopped down in the chair, placed her elbows on the table, and ducked her head down.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_!" she shrieked, and it was so shrill a noise that it silenced him. Her reddened eyes were nearly manic, wide and ardent as she glared up at him in her desperation. "I don't want to be _sick_! I want to be _happy_!"

Before Draco could say anything, she pressed on, one hand remaining on her temple and the other waving about in her hysteria.

"I want to be happy and Draco, you're the only one who makes me happy. If I died tomorrow or if I died ten years from now, it wouldn't change anything for me." She patted the center of her chest with shaking fingers, frantic as she continued. "I'd still be my happiest if I was with _you_. I can't do it on my own—I _know_ I can't—and when I'm with you, I feel like it's easier to try. I can see a future for myself. Being with you gives me a reason _to_ get better!"

If she died tomorrow.

Draco had been living every single fucking day of the last five weeks in sheer terror of that exact thing happening. He'd done everything he possibly could within his power to try and fix it. To take the pieces that she kept ripping off of herself and put them back together. To take the pieces she rejected and hold onto them, caring for them until she was ready to join them again. He'd fallen so hard and so fast for her that he'd end his own life just to give her his last breaths.

And so what if it was just the bond? So what if the bond was the reason why he'd fallen so quickly? So fucking what?

Knowing that he felt that way for her when she'd just manipulated him into whatever the Hell it was that she had? It frightened him to the point of not being able to see what a life without her would be like. He needed to know what she'd manipulated. He needed to know the truth, before he could look at her without feeling so lost.

Because even if it was the bond, there was no undoing it. His mother was dead. Narcissa was fucking _dead_ and she was never coming back. No one would be able to undo their connection to the stars. If he was going to spend the rest of his eternity with Hermione, then she needed to tell him the _truth_.

He couldn't bear the idea of knowing that he'd shouldered all that pain and all that trauma for her, enduring the brokenness of it, only for her to be using him the entire time. The dreams they shared, the laughter and the kisses, the deep conversations and the breakthroughs. The milestones. The trust she'd given him.

If it was all false, then he'd rather walk the Earth for all of eternity as half a man, than a whole one with a liar at his side.

"Then right now, this is your chance. This is your one fucking chance." He slammed his hand flat on the counter. "Tell me right the fuck now. Which parts were real, and which parts were fake?"

She looked on in disbelief. "How do you expect me to answer that? It's not as though I—"

He raised his voice, cutting her off. "Which parts were _real,_ and which parts were _fake,_ Granger?!"

"Stop yelling at me, please." She dropped her head into her hands, dissolving into sobs that automatically brought her to the edge of hyperventilation and lightheadedness. "Please, please stop."

"Tell me now, or that's it. Do you hear? That's _it_."

"It was all real!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "What are you even _talking_ about? Everything I have ever said to you has been the _truth_!"

"No, that's not what—"

"No, you can stop right there, Draco Malfoy!" It was her turn to point at him. "What Theo told you was true. I did tell him those things. But I never once told him I lied to you about _anything_. What I did say to him, I said out of anger and the fact that you'd betrayed something I trusted you with. I meant it when I said it but regretted it once I calmed down and had time to think about things."

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, his heart racing so loud that he was surprised she couldn't hear it. "You admitted to manipulating me. You were the one who said—"

Her glare was vicious and as sharp as the edge of a dagger. "Yes, I said hurtful things about you to Theo. Yes, it was wrong. The fact that I told you anything in this state of mind and you jumped to conclusions is a problem, too. We're both to blame, but the difference is that you went too far."

Shock stilled his breath.

_What?_

"When I told you how I purged, how often I did it, and how easy it was, _that_ was manipulation. When I sat on the couch with you before Christmas and let you make those rules, _that_ was manipulation. When we were in the dream world and I told you the way I felt about my body the way I did, _that_ was manipulation. It's manipulation because it is inherently manipulative for me to tell you those things."

"H-How?" he choked out, his voice strangled. "How is . . . I don't . . ."

"Because when I told you those things, even though they were true, it was me trying to make me seem less sick than I really was. I was trying to soften the blow so you wouldn't make me stop. The clearer the image of me someday getting better became, the more frightened I got. The more frightened I got, the more liberties I took to try and make it seem less bad. I never manipulated you with the intention of doing so, but I knew when I told you those things that they would make you think it wasn't that _bad_ that I purged. I _never_ lied to you. I did manipulate you in the way I just described, but I have _never_ lied to you."

"So, you . . ." His brow furrowed as he searched her eyes. Panic was starting to creep in on the edges of his countenance. "I'm confused."

"When someone has an eating disorder, Draco," she said, sweeping her fingers through her braids to tousle them back out of her face, "they should not be telling you the details of how they binge, how they starve, and how they purge. It's inherently manipulative because it tricks you into believing it's not as bad as it really is. I manipulated you into believing I was okay. I didn't manipulate you into believing I liked you. _That_ is real."

Draco stared at her. He could hear something rushing past his ears—like the sound of a raging river in the middle of the woods.

"Draco," she said, "you are the only person I would ever let take me to the ends of the fucking Earth and bury me alive, and that _terrifies_ me. Do you understand me? I'm _terrified_ of you. I would never lie to you."

Draco felt his stomach start to churn. He lost his breath, sagging back against the counter again. He rubbed his jaw with his hand, sliding his fingers together down the line of either side. Everything she said made sense. He could see in her eyes that she was telling the truth.

And that was the problem.

The puzzle pieces that he'd so neatly fit together in her room the night before started to come apart in his mind. They rearranged themselves into an image that told him exactly what her words meant. They meant that he'd overreacted. That he'd chosen to wear himself so thin that one small miscommunication had caused him to do more than degrade her. To hurt her.

They meant that he _was_ a monster.

Hermione's brows came together and she gave him a onceover. Horror dawned in her eyes like the sun rising in the morning, burning eternally in the vastness of space.

"Is that where all this has come from? You thought that I had lied to you about the things I've shared with you?" The horror intensified into an emotion that he couldn't place. One that shattered him into thousands of broken shards. "Everything we've been through together—the dreams, Christmas, Paris . . . ? You thought I lied, and your first reaction was to get so angry that you _abused_ me?"

He could feel the heat draining from his face, blood rushing down to the pit of his stomach. "That's not . . . I was just so—so _tired_. I didn't—"

"Draco." She sounded revolted. "I'm your witch. We're _bonded._ I'm your _soulmate._ How could you treat me like that?"

He didn't have the wherewithal to stop and process the fact that during the course of this conversation, not only had she admitted to having an eating disorder, but she'd also claimed herself as his witch.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?!" he shouted. "Everything I've done to be there for you, to try and help you see how much I fucking care about you, only to find out that you'd manipulated me in some unknown way, and that you'd lied to me about something? I assumed you'd lied about everything!"

"You're supposed to talk to me, Draco!" she shouted back, clapping her hands together to punctuate her words and syllables. "You're supposed to _communicate_!"

Draco combed anxious, tremulous fingers backward through his hair. He couldn't handle this. He could not _handle_ this.

He paced out into the common room, taking a deep, gasping breath.

She followed him.

"Don't walk away from this. You started this. _You_ were the one who wanted to talk. You—"

He spun to face her, both hands having found their way into his hair. "I can't deal with this right now."

"You treated me like Ron," she whispered, holding a hand over her mouth. "You treated me _worse_ than Ron."

His hackles rose, his chest swelling with the still-growing panic. "That's not fair."

"No, it is fair! It is! Because at least Ron's excuse is that he's just turned into an awful person. But you . . ." She looked him up and down. "You're a good person. You're a genuinely good person who chose to surrender to the bond and take care of me. But the mere thought that I might not be as perfect as you decided I was supposed to be caused you to hurt me in a way that you knew would dig deep. You knew what you were doing."

This was it.

The limit had been reached.

Draco had gone hurling over the cliff, into a ravine of sheer panic. He couldn't breathe.

He wasn't a good person. He was worse than Ron. He was a failure. Admitting that he'd been wrong in this situation would mean having to accept that he was all of those things. He was _worse_ than those things.

A monster.

"I wouldn't have had to do that if you would have just told me what you meant!" he yelled, walking around the couch and pacing back and forth in front of it. "If you would have just explained right then and there, none of this would have happened!"

"This is too much!" Hermione put one hand on her hip and the other over her eyes. "I have a _headache_. Can you _please_ stop yelling?!"

"No. No, you—you said that you did lie. On the hill, you specifically said that you lied. That's why I jumped to conclusions. I took your word for it, and I assumed that everything about us was a lie."

"I was talking about the way I felt about the bond!"

"You led me on. You let me believe you wanted to consummate it." He paced to the left, running his hands through his messy hair so many times that he was afraid he was going to start tearing it out at the roots. "You let me believe that you wanted to be with me, but you never did. How am I supposed to know that any of this is true? How am I supposed to know if you really do wanna be with me?"

"I _do_." She sounded exhausted, and her face was buried in her hands. When she lifted it, she looked exhausted, too. "I don't know how else to say it. I've told you everything."

"Then why did you say to Theo that you couldn't wait to be rid of me? Why would you choose those specific words?"

Draco wasn't thinking clearly. His mind had gone completely red. He held nothing inside of him but anger.

He'd lost it.

"I told you," she whined. "I told you it was overwhelming for me when I first found out about the bond. Therefore, _when I first found out_ , I did not want to be bonded to you. But I fell—"

"Shut up," he snarled. "Stop _lying_!"

"Okay, fine!" she cried, voice strained. She stood behind the couch, seeming too agitated to move. "I'll admit, there's dark sides to my problems. Really dark sides. My room, to start. How afraid I am of losing control. How close to death it brings me every time I do it. But I am _not_ a liar. I have never even _wanted_ to lie to you. If I did, do you really think I would have let you make those rules for me in the first place? If I didn't mean everything I was saying to you right now—if I didn't care about you—do you think I'd be wasting my time in this stupid circular argument with you?!"

No. No. No.

She was lying.

She had to be lying.

Because if she wasn't, then he was an abuser. He was a reprehensible, disgusting, piece of rubbish who didn't deserve to have anything. Nothing. He wouldn't deserve her roots, her leaves, her blooms—nothing. He wouldn't deserve—

He wanted to die.

Draco turned to look at her across the back of the couch, his dark expression meeting the exhaustion in hers. Both had their arms crossed over their chests.

Hermione spoke.

"We need to stop this. My heart is tired."

He flinched, tearing his gaze away to glower at the frost-blurred window.

"Then maybe you should get some fucking rest."

The silence echoed like a scream.

When Draco came home for Christmas of his Sixth Year, the Dark Lord made him take the Mark. His parents had been present in the Drawing Room when it happened. The Dark Lord forced them to watch as he tested Draco's fealty by burning that filth into his flesh, seeming impressed by the fact that Draco gritted his teeth against the agony instead of crying out. Lucius was stood idly by, watching the Dark Lord's face the way he always did when he feared he might change his mind.

Narcissa had stood to Draco's left, holding her son's gaze as the darkness seeped down to wrap around his bone. Within them, he saw a calmness that soothed him, providing a balm to the pain the Mark caused. And when the Dark Lord let him leave the Drawing Room, he shared one final look with his mother that showed him that no matter what happened when he went back to school, she was always going to be his peace.

Draco wished that he could remember her eyes that way, not when they were glassy and empty, staring up at him in death.

"I can't fucking take this," he hissed, his fingers tangled in his hair and his vision blurred with tears of pure, unbearable rage. "I can't fucking look at you for another second. Ever since you fucking—you fucking—"

The guilt of what he'd done to Hermione that week was too much. The yelling, the arguments, the cruelty, the hatred. The guilt, splattered against the backdrop of her disorder and adorned with memories of the moments they'd shared that had caused him to fall for her. All of it, rolled up into one.

None of this would have happened if it weren't for her. If she would have just let him fix everything, then it never would have gotten to this point. They could have been happy. Things wouldn't have to be so volatile and hateful and maybe then he wouldn't be so overwhelmed.

_Except that it's my fault. It's my fault that I didn't just back the fuck off. If I wouldn't have surrendered to the bond, then I would have been able to keep her out._

_But now she's inside of me and she's turned me into a monster._

His mind splintered, cracks spidering outward from the center of his despair, and then it broke.

He couldn't do this anymore.

"—you fucking _bitch_. I can't even look at you without smelling vomit. Because you won't stop until you kill yourself and I'm just fucking gonna let you." He breathed a laugh, as a tear rolled down his cheek. "I'm just gonna let you because if I don't, then you're gonna kill _me."_

Hermione's jaw hung open, her cheeks streaked with tears that fell, fell, fell. But Draco didn't care. He couldn't. He'd completely broken down.

"I can't bear to look at you. I can't fucking bear to look at you, you selfish little girl. I give up." He threw his hands up, still crying silently with his anger. His eyebrows shot up as he walked backward toward the portrait. Then, he pointed an accusatory finger at her. "If you die? That's on _you_. Because I give the fuck up."

His heart was broken, pleading with him to take his words back. To stop himself and try to fix what he could fix. To fix _this_. To fix _them_.

But he'd gone too far.

Hermione was crying again, but this time, it was different. It was weak, like she was too breathless to get the necessary air into her lungs to get a full sob out. There was a dark fear in her eyes as she watched him turn to the portrait. A fear that he knew well.

"Draco," she said, his name hitching on a whimper. "Please don't give up on me. I'll do anything, just . . . Don't leave right now. Please don't leave me."

He spun, his teeth bared as he clenched them together.

"It's _Malfoy_."

He left through the portrait before she fell apart.

* * *

Draco stormed down the corridor, weaving in and out of lantern light and shadows.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. None of his emotions made any sense to him. They felt like a tornado, countless streams of negativity swirling into a destructive funnel that was tearing through the plains of his heart. It was more than overwhelming. It was not something he could survive.

Blowing up on Hermione like that was wrong. Whether he wanted to give up on her recovery or not, it was wrong of him to tell her he was going to let her kill herself. He knew it wasn't her fault. He knew how this had all begun—she'd told him as much. He _knew_ that her disorder wasn't something she could heal in five weeks or four days. What wasn't fair was that he'd hurt her just to make the fact that he was a horrible person easier to stomach.

He knew that she _was_ trying, yet he'd been shoving that aside for days just to make it easier for him to stomach the fact that he was failing at fixing her.

Why had he said those horrific words to her? What had come over him? How had they gone from being so close that he'd chase her across the sand in his dreams, to now screaming at each other for days? To him being angry with her for twenty-four hours a day? To him lashing out in an unforgivable way?

Because it _was_ unforgivable. He didn't deserve forgiveness for what he'd done at breakfast. He certainly didn't deserve it for what he'd just said to her in the common room. No amount of apologies were going to erase that.

He was the selfish one. He was. He'd been doing whatever _he_ wanted to try and fix her—also something that _he_ wanted—and he hadn't been patient enough. He hadn't been understanding enough to get her to a point where she'd even want to think about getting better.

Why couldn't he have seen past his own fears so he could look into hers?

When he came to the grand staircase across from the open doors of the Great Hall, Draco sunk down to sit on the center of bottommost step. He rested his elbows on his knees, hunched over, and twined his fingers behind his head.

He was going to cry.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco looked up. McGonagall swept into view, coming from the Great Hall. She stood in front of him, looking down the length of her nose at him, through her half-moon glasses. "You are aware you're on the stairs, correct?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, misery keeping him mellow and quiet.

McGonagall studied him for a moment. "Is something the matter?"

Draco said nothing. He'd never felt inclined to say anything more than what was necessary to an authority figure, and McGonagall was no exception.

Besides, how could McGonagall want to even be _near_ him when the reason why her dearest friends were dead was because of him?

"You remind me so much of your father sometimes," McGonagall said, leaning against the banister in a nonchalant way. It looked so alien, seeing her standing that way, that it startled him. Sometimes he forgot professors were human. "He used to be just as stoic as you."

Draco almost laughed, giving her a strange look. "Stoic? I'm not stoic. And frankly, I'm nothing like my father."

McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "Yes, that sounds like something Lucius would say. Tell me, what problem is it you're trying to solve on your own right now? What is it you don't want anyone involved in? What is it you think you can fix?"

Draco stared at her. His heart dropped through seven thousand kilometers of the Earth, a stone cleaving through water. How could she possibly know what he was battling with right now? He'd never told anyone other than Rose about Hermione's disorder and even then, he'd been vague.

Did the Headmistress know?

"What makes you think I'm the middle of a problem right now, professor?" he asked, his voice tight. "Just because my father lived in the shadow of a permanent crisis doesn't mean that I do."

McGonagall's lips curved up into a prim smile, the sort that hid secrets, and she pushed away from the banister. The hem of her robes swept the floor as she turned and lowered herself to sit beside him. A bit breathless, being the age that she was, it was a moment before she spoke again.

"I don't think your father received that missive, unfortunately." She adjusted her skirts so they didn't bunch around her ankles, then clasped her hands in her lap. She pursed her lips, shaking her head and saying nothing.

 _All right, fine_ , he thought, gritting his teeth. _I'll bite._

"And which missive _did_ he receive?"

McGonagall's lips twitched upward. "I'm afraid it was the one that told him he was well within his rights to wear the crown for Hogwarts' Most Dramatic."

The day Draco laughed at a professor's joke would be his last.

Shoving his mirth deep within him, he leaned all the way back, his elbows resting on a higher step to prop himself up.

"My father brought that crown home after graduation," he drawled. "He is perhaps the most dramatic person I know."

McGonagall laughed heartily. "There is where we have something in common, my dear. In his Fifth Year, he launched a full-scale petition to try to award members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight a specific room and date for their mid-year exams. He sent a parchment around to every student member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and gathered signatures. When he was done, he delivered it with a speech to Headmaster Dumbledore in the hopes that he'd award them a separate room and date to take their exams."

"Why would he do that?" Draco asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"Oh, it turned out he wasn't understanding the material and he simply wanted more time to study." She sighed. "Albus knew what was going on, as he always had a way with that sort of thing."

"Did he allow him the extra day?"

"Oh, absolutely not," she replied, chuckling. "In fact, he gave him one week of detention for disrupting students the month before exams."

That didn't sound like Dumbledore. After watching Potter get away with everything under the sun and earning House points for it for six years, Draco saw Dumbledore as more of the soft type. Especially after the way the elder wizard had tried to reason with Draco the night of his death not because he wanted to plead for his life, but because he wanted to spare Draco the shadows on his soul.

Guilt clenched his heart.

Would the portrait even let him back into the common room?

McGonagall's voice broke through his despairing thoughts, pulling his gaze up from the stone floor where it had fallen.

"And then he personally tutored your father in all subjects every day until the day of the exam."

Draco didn't know how to explain the feeling that shot through him at her words. It was like an epiphany, an answer to the storm of emotions that had pushed him to his limit until he broke and spilled out all over Hermione. Something that brought a sense of reasoning to his disposition.

Dumbledore had done all that for him, yet Lucius had still chosen the path of darkness upon the Dark Lord's rise. Knowing his father, fear had likely trumped any lingering fondness he may have held for the Headmaster. When the Dark Lord tasked Draco with the demise of Dumbledore, Lucius had been adamant that Draco focus on doing whatever he could to stay alive, even if that meant committing murder.

Lucius had always lived in fear, and everything he'd done—including setting aside his Muggle-born prejudice to bond his son to a Muggle-born witch—had been out of fear.

Draco and his father were indeed very alike.

"Did my father pass his exams?" Draco asked, sitting up and leaning over with his fingers intertwined and elbows on his thighs. His brow furrowed as his thoughts raced, whirling into an image that made more sense than the one he had painted in his mind of Lucius Malfoy.

"Some," McGonagall said in a thoughtful voice. "But your father was never the sort to pass at all. You see, it wasn't until his Sixth Year that he really started to take his studies seriously."

"How come?"

"Why, I believe Sixth Year was the year he may have started courting your mother. Before that—" She fluttered a hand nonchalantly in the air. "—he was just as troublesome as you were at those ages. There were multiples times where I almost called you by your father's name. Sometimes, you just act so much like him that it's difficult to discern who I'm speaking to. But I can see that you've done some changing this year yourself, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco frowned, looking down at the frail, old witch.

There were three things that he had always been certain of regarding his father. One of them was that he had a temper. He'd struck him for offenses that made no sense, like letting his hair grow out or bringing home poor marks. Another was that his father was a massive hypocrite with no regard for anyone's emotions other than ones that served him.

But he also knew that his father was ruthless.

He was ruthless and he would do whatever it took to protect what belonged to him. Money, the Manor, his legacy, his family. He would do absolutely anything to ensure that his family survived. Every choice he'd ever made had been with the intention of protecting Narcissa and Draco from the fate of death by the hand of those he chose as his enemies.

Narcissa made him neither a better nor worse person. She just brought out parts of him that he'd already been capable of showing. For Draco, Hermione took the parts of him that were like his father and drew them out into the light. The things he'd wanted to hide inside of a cage of denial in his body, and the things about himself that he didn't want to claim at all. She took those things and made him feel something more than just numbness. Something more than a need to chase feeling underneath the needles that had etched the tattoos of his memories into his skin.

Draco could be his father's son if he wanted to.

He didn't have to be perfect. There was no need to be the person who fixed Hermione. But he didn't need to be the person who gave up on her, either.

He just needed to be the person who stayed.

"Mr. Malfoy."

Draco looked over at the Headmistress, seeing her scrutinizing him with a curious expression.

"Your father has always acted out of fear. Just like when he was fifteen and he was too afraid to admit he was misunderstanding the material in his classes, he made the same choices during the war. Every choice that brought him salvation from the pain that fear causes, he made. That is why he's in Azkaban. Because of the choices he made."

Draco had never felt the need to speak to a professor about anything before. Not McGonagall, not Snape, and not Dumbledore. He'd never trusted authority figures because of the choices his father had made, and he might not ever trust them. But right here, right now, he felt like he could pretend to imagine what it was like to be anyone other than himself.

"Do you think people can change, professor?" he asked, his voice soft. "Or do you think we stay the same forever?"

McGonagall looked taken aback, like the question was unexpected and much deeper than she'd planned on thinking that evening. She gazed down at her hands clasped in her lap, twiddling her thumbs during the pause in the conversation. Then, she looked directly at him.

"This world is full of many, many different kinds of people, Mr. Malfoy, and all of those people have one thing in common. The desire for happiness. We all dream of it in some way—our perfect life, our perfect world, our utopia. Some of us make the wrong choices to bring ourselves happiness, and those wrong choices cause other people to get hurt. Some of us make the right choices. But at our cores, we all have the ability to make choices that have an affect on the world around us."

She stopped, frowning so deep that it drew horizontal lines across her forehead. She cleared her throat.

"Albus was my dearest friend. He was my absolute _dearest_ friend, but he was riddled with imperfections. Arguably, he made many wrong choices on his path to the defeat of the Dark Lord, but one thing always remained the same about him. That was that he would do anything to preserve a world where everyone had the freedom to make choices.

"One thing he always told me was that he regretted underestimating Tom Riddle's desire for a happiness he could bear. The choices that Riddle would go on to make were the wrong ones. He was the boy who made all the wrong choices, but that was just it. He made _choices_. As long as we have the ability to make a choice, we can always made the decision to make the right ones."

She sighed into the enraptured silence that Draco's held breath had created.

"So . . . Yes. I do think people can change. I think there's always room to make the right choices, even when it feels like it's too late. Just like Riddle grew into being someone who made all the wrong ones, we all have the ability to do the same."

Draco let his breath out, saying, "Do you think I can change?"

McGonagall stared at him for a long, long time.

"I think you already have. And I think you know that, Mr. Malfoy." She pressed her lips together and then lifted one hand. After a moment's hesitation, she placed it upon his forearm. She squeezed, just like his mother used to do, and it made his throat ache and his eyes sting as though they were burning. "And I think asking if you can change means that you've just taken the first step towards it."

She smiled at him, then, and Draco couldn't help but let himself smile back. They got to their feet, dusting themselves off as they did. She was much shorter than him, and her gray hair comforted him in its familiarity. There was a twinkle in her eye that hadn't been there before, and Draco felt a tad more relaxed now around her.

In that moment, as the time hung suspended between them, Draco considered telling her everything about Hermione, the bond, and his mother. He thought of opening his mouth and making the choice to let it all come tumbling out.

But the second he imagined himself doing it?

His chest expanded with a panic that made his hands want to clench into fists. The fear that things would backfire, or that Hermione would hate him for the rest of her life for betraying him stopped him. He knew there was a chance he couldn't save her.

What if he _could_?

What if he just had to make the right choices? He had to try, even if he didn't know what the right ones were.

At least he knew now which ones were the wrong ones.

"My father really was quite dramatic, wasn't he?" he said, flashing her another quick, faint smile as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Going to those lengths just to win himself some extra time."

"Perhaps things would not have seemed quite so dramatic had he simply asked for help." McGonagall raised one eyebrow. "Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco narrowed his eyes a fraction.

Did she know? Was that what this conversation was about? Did she know about Hermione?

"I guess so," he replied to her question.

"How is Miss Granger?" she asked, sending his heart rate skyrocketing to the heavens.

"She's fine."

"I was informed that just this week, she fainted in Professor Flitwick's class. You took her to the Infirmary." She took a step toward him. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

As she held his gaze with a steadiness that irked him, Draco flashed back to the time in November when this had all begun—when Hermione cast the spell and drank the tea, and the bond caused him to be pulled into the memory with her. He'd gone to the Infirmary and McGonagall hadn't allowed him into the room to see her.

She hadn't allowed him, but she'd allowed Theo.

_Does she think I've done something to Hermione?_

The authority figures in Draco's life had been a complete disaster, lying and hiding, hurting themselves and others. As much as he loved his mother, she _had_ stood by while her son was pulled down into the darkness. His father had done worse, pulling his entire family into those deep shadows. All the adults in Draco's life seemed to have no issue sending their children to war. The Nott family was the only one who'd made the right choice, but in the end, had still sent their son to battle.

The adults were still scared children inside, just like the rest of them.

And now it felt like McGonagall was accusing him of hurting Hermione in a way that would send her to the Infirmary. Yes, he'd made a mistake that morning—a mistake that he regretted immensely—but something like that wasn't what had sent her to the Infirmary. McGonagall, however, was watching him as though he were still a Death Eater, patrolling the corridors of the castle. Like he was a Carrow, hurting students for the sake of it.

Why would he tell her _anything_?

"We're fine," he said, voice suddenly cold.

"I'm getting rather worried about her."

Hermione needed help. She did, but he wasn't gonna betray her secrets. Not again. Never again.

 _I can handle this_.

As McGonagall's shrewd gaze bored into him, the silence between them a rift seven years wide, Draco realized that all this conversation had been was a way for McGonagall to find out if he'd hurt Hermione. Two times being sent to the Infirmary, with Draco the common denominator in both?

If he told the Headmistress about Hermione's disorder, it would fix everything for him, but it wouldn't fix her.

_I can handle this._

"Then maybe you should check on her," he said.

She tilted her head to the side, and her eyebrows moved once again.

"Why, Mr. Malfoy . . . I am."

He didn't always like being right.

"Good night, professor," he said, and then he walked back the direction he'd first come. He could feel her gaze following him as he went.

Draco knew Hermione was sick. She was _very_ sick. But she was trying and he was willing to put in the effort to see it through. He was willing to take this to the very edge of the Earth just so he could show her that he wasn't gonna bury her alive _or_ dead.

He would much rather show her what it looked like when the roses bloomed in the Winter.

 _Next_ Winter.

As he picked up the pace, breaking out into an all-out sprint back to the portrait, his thoughts fell into place.

_I can make the right choices. I can fix everything._

_I can save her._

* * *

When Draco entered the common room, the first thing he saw was the moonlight.

The lights were off, and the silver of the full moon cut through the darkness on its way into the room from the window. With everything else being so dark, it was almost as though it were directing him down a path past the hallway and into the dining area. He walked forward, the wall of the kitchenette to his right, and stopped at the edge.

"I can't . . ."

He couldn't see her, but he could hear her weeping.

Dumbledore's portrait almost hadn't let him in. He'd merely sat there and stared at Draco until the shame pulled his head down. The portrait never spoke, but it didn't have to. His disappointment and mistrust was as plain to see as though it had been painted there when the portrait was first made.

But Draco was determined. He knew he needed to make things right with her. He was going to go in there and start communicating for once— _really_ communicating. He wanted to open up to her in a way that wasn't serving himself. He was going to sit down with her, apologize for everything wrong he'd done, and ask _her_ what she needed from him.

They had problems, yes, but they were problems that were going to take time to work through. His anger and her fear. Her manipulation and his selfishness.

So he'd told all of this to the portrait. Just said it, like he were speaking directly to the former Headmaster. He'd promised not to hurt her and to listen to her this time. To make the right choices.

And the portrait had swung open.

Now, Draco stood frozen in the common room with his hood on, hidden by the wall, listening to her cry. She hadn't left the kitchen and judging by the meekness in the way she wept, she'd been doing it for the entire time he'd been gone.

" _Tell me if your heart is tired."_

She had.

She had, and he'd ignored it.

"No, no, no . . . I can't . . ."

This was the destruction his dragon had wrought, and it was up to him to put out the flames.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the kitchenette.

Hermione was on the floor, collapsed with her knees to her chest. The refrigerator door was open, spilling yellow light out across the kitchenette. The freezer was open, too. Apart from it, the oven was also open. It was turned off, and the chicken he'd been cooking before he left was completely gone. Eaten.

She was surrounded by food.

It was on the floor, most of it having been emptied from within the fridge. Plastic containers with leftovers were open—empty. She'd eaten an entire bag of mini carrots, all of the celery and broccoli, and none of the fruit was left. The pantry door was open and anything inside had been opened and picked through. There were countless other things strewn about the ground, food she'd nibbled and set aside for later. Food she'd devoured until there was nothing left.

And she wept.

"I can't . . . _Breathe_ ," she was sobbing, like putting the food into her mouth was painful. Like she couldn't stop. Like she had no reason to. "I _can't_."

This was all his fault.

_This is . . ._

She had a spoon and an ice cream carton in her hands, her piteous wails sounding between each bite. Her braids were pulled up and wrapped into a bun on top of her head, a few of the ends hanging down to frame her face from the haste with which she had tugged it up.

" _I can't, I can't, I can't."_

No. No, this—

. . . _Just like Paris._

His heart shattered into millions of pieces that went soaring into different, unfindable dimensions. Broken, he fell to his knees beside her. She jolted, looking up at him with a terrified expression on her utterly destroyed face. The tears continued to fall, and fall, and fall.

But Draco didn't hesitate.

He made a grab for the ice cream carton. She shrieked, dropping the spoon as she latched onto the container with both hands. They struggled, and she turned her back to him, forcing his arm around half of her body as he tried to wrench it out of her grasp. Her leg kicked out, hitting the open refrigerator door and sending it inward a bit.

"Stop!" he growled. "Hermione, _stop_!"

" _No_!" she screamed, practically sitting on him as she kept tight hold of the ice cream. " _I need it_!"

"No, you _don't_!"

He ripped the ice cream carton out of her hands and tossed it aside. It crashed against the cupboard beneath the sink and toppled to the ground, rolling to the side. Hermione cried out and pitched forward, starting to crawl. Draco wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her back. She kicked her feet against the ground, writhing in his arms until she finally turned to face him while half-sitting on the floor.

Her hands slapped at his chest, her tear-streaked face contorted with fury. He batted her right hand to the side and grabbed her left wrist. She bared her teeth. He snatched her other wrist out of the air before she could land another blow.

In the chaos of their battle, the empty containers clattered across the floor and the food she hadn't eaten spilled onto the bare linoleum.

"I'm _not_ gonna hurt you, all right?" he said. "Calm down!"

"No. No, you don't—you need to— _let me go_!"

"Calm the _fuck_ down!"

"Let me go! I need it! You don't _understand_!" Her breathing came in short, hysterical pants. "Let _go_ of me!"

Draco shook her by the wrists, her head whipping back and forth as he tried to put the sense back into her body. All he needed was a few moments. Just a few short moments to walk her back from the ledge. His hair was in his eyes and the holes in the knees of his denims had torn wider, but he didn't care.

Hermione sucked in her breath and it caught there in her throat, held abated. Her eyes were wild, rolling about as she tried to decide between looking at him or looking over at the ice cream.

"You don't need it," he said.

The pace of her breaths increased. He could feel her hurtling down the tracks toward another meltdown.

"Please, okay?" she whimpered. Her expression turned desperate and her wrists twisted in his grasp. " _Please_. I need it."

" _No."_ He held firm, his expression dark and cold as he growled through his teeth. "You don't."

Her eyes searched his and for a second, he thought she was breathing normally. But when he loosened his hold on her, sure that she was calmed down, she scrambled across the kitchen floor and grabbed the ice cream.

Draco knelt there, momentarily shocked as she reached into the slowly-melting dessert with the spoon and scooped out an over large bite. She shoved it into her mouth, her brows furrowed together as though she were in pure anguish.

Draco wasn't the only one who had shattered.

He snapped into action, getting to his feet and reaching down to haul her up by the elbows. When they were standing, covered in the remnants of the food on the floor, he loomed over her like a sentinel in the dark. He held her forearm and squeezed until she cried out in pain. Then, he grabbed the rim of the carton. With a snarl, he tore it away from her and dropped it.

She tried to dive for it, a pitiful sight in her mania. He'd never seen anything like this before and he knew he never wanted to again.

This time, he wrapped his arms around her from the side, over her upper arms to trap her. She struggled, using the full weight of her body, and they stumbled back together. He knocked into the refrigerator door, closing it all the way and plunging them into darkness. He felt a throbbing pain shoot down his leg when the side of his thigh hit the counter.

"Stop!" he shouted.

"You _need_ to let me _go_ , Draco! _Let me fucking go_!"

He held her tighter, his eyes adjusting to the dark with the help of the faded moonlight shining into the dining area from the common room window.

"Stop."

" _Just let go of me! Let go of me!"_ She fought so hard that it strained his muscles to hold on tighter. Her braids whipped through the air as she tried once again to twist out of his hold.

He crushed her against his chest, his heart barely able to pump blood through his body from the weight of his sadness and pity. When she turned toward him, trying to get her hands underneath his arms to push against him with the bottoms of her forearms, their eyes met. In that split second, he tried his best to thread every last bit of desperation he had for her into his gaze. She faltered.

" _Stop_ ," he whispered.

"Why are you even here?!" Her voice was getting weaker, starting to crack. Her hands curled, the outsides of her fists shoving against him. "You told me you'd rather I just _died_. _Why did you come back?!"_

He couldn't speak. Didn't need to. Because as the urge he had to break down and dissolve into tears of his own grew, the tidal waves of her wrath had begun to subside. He could feel the sea leaving her body like the moon had pulled it back to the depths.

"Why can't I just be the girl everyone likes?" she whined, the steam of her outburst slowly filtering out through her words. "Why do I have to be the girl with the personality that no one understands? Why do men always want to _hurt_ me? Why can't I just be the girl that everyone wants to take care of? Why can't I—Why can't I—"

Keeping one arm around her back, his throat aching with unbidden emotion, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at him. She tried to sag downward, to remove herself from his grasp as though he were shining too bright to witness. Her facial expression was pained. Desolate.

"I like you," he said, willing her to accept his heart and hold it inside of her. "I understand you. I don't want to hurt you. I want to take care of you. And I'm sorry."

Her chin trembled and her eyes squeezed until they were almost shut. Her tears leaked out past her lashes. He could feel her knees losing strength, felt her weight dragging down against the force of his hold. Felt her pain dragging her down into the depths of soil that kept rejecting her and making it harder for her to take root.

He wished he could till the soil and force it to accept her, so she could grow and bloom into a girl whose smile reached her eyes.

So he sank down with her.

The moment they hit the floor, his back slamming against the cupboard and the side of her upper body leaning into his, she began to wail. It was different from before, this weeping. It was the kind that he knew felt like a monster had taken its shadowy claws, reached down into the pit of her stomach, and yanked the emotion outward through her mouth.

She sobbed the same way she had in that hotel room in Paris.

Right arm still around her shoulder, Draco wrapped his left arm around the front of her, curving it until his hand cupped the side and top of her head. He tucked her underneath his chin and held her close. Lifting his right knee and letting his left leg stretch out along the floor, he became boneless so she would have something soft and welcome to break down against. He held her because she needed to be held. She _deserved_ to be held.

No matter how badly he'd hurt her.

Sitting curled up amongst the food, this moment was a somber, near-grotesque representation of the state of their relationship. Two broken people held captive by food. Food, which should've been harmless and given life. Food, which had destroyed her and through her, him.

"Just let me die," she sobbed, her entire body trembling with a violence that ached in his own. Her weeping didn't sound human. It was almost too much for him to comprehend, yet not enough to push him away. "Just let me die, Draco, _please_."

"No," he whispered, his voice breaking. The barrier between decorum and emotion had fallen. His vision was blurring. He sniffled. "No, okay? Never."

"Why not? It's what you said you wanted. It's what you said. You _said_ —you said—you . . ."

And then they were both crying.

Draco fell apart, his own sobs hovering just beneath hers, lifting them up as though he wanted to carry them. He pressed her head even closer, burying his face in her braids as he wept. There had never been another time where he felt like he treasured her more and now, here with her curled up against him like this, he felt like he'd kill anyone who laid another hand on her. If she threw herself off of a cliff and he couldn't save her, he'd throw himself off right after.

All this time, he'd been worried about being a failure to himself when he should have been worrying about failing her.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured again and again. "Please forgive me. I'm so fucking sorry."

_I'm weak._

"I _am_ trying." She continued to weep in his arms. "I am. I'm just so scared."

_I'm so weak for her._

"It's all right to be scared," he murmured, fingers sinking into the spaces between her braids. "I am, too. More than you know. But I'm here. I'm _here_ , and I'm _not_ gonna leave you."

_I'm so fucking weak._

"I don't remember who I was before it." She took a deep breath that shuddered like branches in the trees of a forest at night. "I don't remember the girl I was before it happened, and I want her back." She started to sob again. "I just want her _back_."

"Gods fucking _dammit_ ," was all he could manage to push out as he curled himself around her and crushed her so tight to his body that he feared she'd stop breathing. "It's all right. It's okay. I'm not leaving."

Her hands finally came up, her fingers curving over his bicep and holding it firm against her chest. She turned her face and he felt the wetness of her cheeks against the side of his throat. It felt like they were made of acid. Then, her breath brushed his neck.

"I don't want to be sick anymore," she said. "I just want to be happy."

Another pang in his ruined heart, reminding him that even when the agony grew too much to bear, he was still weak to her.

"You will," he said, voice thick with emotion and his brow furrowed. "I promise you that I will make you happy. I'll take you away from all of it, do you hear me?"

She lifted her head, gazing up at him. It was still dark in the kitchen and the backdrop of the moonlight seemed to illuminate everything but her face. Her gorgeous face, which he cupped between tender hands and held as though it were made of spun glass. A face that he would gladly wake up to again and again if only it meant that she were alive.

"I will take you far away from here and take care of you. For the _rest_ of my fucking life. I just need you to keep trying. Okay?" He sniffled again, his hands traveling down her upper arms and finding purchase on her waist. "Okay?"

Hermione reached one hand up, where she swept her fingers across one of his tear tracks. Her hand trailed down the side of his neck and wrapped around the nape, leaving the cool air in the kitchenette to kiss his skin in its wake. She lowered her gaze and nodded.

"I will."

He didn't allow his heart to sing. Not this time.

Not until he saw her try.

He leaned his head down, pressing his forehead to hers. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine a world without her in it and found that the image was too vivid. Painted across the expanse of his mind like the blood of a dying artist on their last canvas. It wasn't supposed to look this clean.

Why could he see it so well?

"Don't stop trying," he whispered. Begged. _Pleaded_. "Don't ever stop trying."

Her other hand slid up his chest, her fingers tickling the right side of his neck. He felt her lips grazing his, barely present as she whispered back, "I won't stop."

Draco tilted his chin up, causing their lips to meet in a chaste, gentle kiss.

"Yeah?" he breathed out.

"Yes." Another soft kiss. "I will."

He let out a harsh breath and kissed her jawline, to the left of the corner of her mouth. His mind was already starting to twist with smoke. "Yeah?"

"Yes," she said as his lips moved up her jaw, toward her ear.

He felt her trembling intensify, punctuated with random jolts and hitches in her breathing pattern as he got closer to the tender flesh beneath the lobe. He laid a kiss there, opening his mouth so he could suck and pull a heavier breath from within her.

When his kisses moved ever-so-slowly down towards her shoulder, his left hand rose. He hooked one finger in the collar on the jumper she'd stolen and exposed her bare skin. He tasted down the length of her collarbone. Her head lolled to the side, against the front of his right shoulder. He felt her breath on his neck again. His lips once again found her outward facing ear and he breathed into it.

"Yeah?"

" _Yes_ ," she moaned, her chest arching upward. Her fingers curled tight in his hair while her other hand wrapped around the back of his neck to keep his face buried in her throat. "Yes. More."

He kissed her neck until she was a puddle on the floor, sighing and tremulous. He knew she could feel the remnants of his tears, and he tasted the salt of them on her skin as his tongue darted out.

Her breath shaking, she grabbed his hand and pulled it lower. At the same time, she adjusted so that she was sitting with her back against his upraised knee and her feet flat on the floor. He kissed her on the lips as he took control, cupping her womanhood through her leggings without hesitancy. She moaned when his tongue brushed against hers, and his fingers began to move. She gripped his thigh—the one that was flat on the floor—and her head fell back.

"Please," she gasped, sounding dazed and faint. Her hips undulated to the massaging motions of his hand. Her thighs fell further apart. "I want you to— _please_."

Draco couldn't think about anything other than her. Her, this moment, and everything he felt for her. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to make her feel good so she wouldn't cry anymore because he didn't like it when she cried because of him.

He liked it when she cried _for_ him.

Ignoring the sound of dismay she made when he pulled his hand away, he took her by the shoulders and pushed. He got to his knees. Hermione laid down amongst the food and empty containers that were still strewn about the floor, her braids fanning out a little from the speed with which she had moved. Draco swung his knee over to the other side of her. Placing one hand on the linoleum beside her head, he reached over and pushed the oven door shut. The moonlight illuminated the messy state of the kitchen floor.

Their eyes met.

She looked back at him with sadness. "I'm a bad person."

"No," he said, shaking his head. Hand still propping himself up, he leaned down to kiss her neck again. Her back immediately rose up, and his elbow bent until their chests were flush together. "You're not."

She lifted her head as he started to move down her body, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of his overlarge jumper. He pushed it up, up, up, and she helped him take it off of her. She laid back again, clad in naught but her leggings and a camisole.

No brassiere.

"I am," she said, her voice small. "I'm bad to you and for you."

"Mm-mm," he said, disagreeing with his lips as he kissed down her right arm and brought her palm to his lips. His gaze bored down into her through the shadows. "You're very good."

"Everything—" She gasped when his lips found the peak of her breast through the camisole, his saliva soaking the fabric as he pulled it into his mouth. "Everything I do is so—so b-bad."

He hummed his disapproval as he slid the hem of her shirt up and revealed her abdomen. It was swollen and tight, distended from how much she'd eaten. The grunt of pain she made when both of his hands smoothed over it made him feel sad. He kissed it everywhere, from one side to the other, soft brushes of skin on skin.

"Wait—it's—" Her breath hitched in a whimper and her hands tried to slip between her skin and his mouth to keep him away from her stomach. "I don't like it."

"Stop," he murmured, gentle as he moved her hand aside and kissed her belly. "What don't you like?"

Her fingers hovered with indecision. He looked up at her once, kissing her there again.

"I don't like myself."

"Well . . ." His lips curved upward. " _I_ like you."

"But I—"

"You are good," he murmured, looking up at her through his lashes as he slipped his fingers into the waistband of both her cotton knickers and leggings. He began to drag them downward. "You feel good and you taste good. Will you let me see how good you taste?"

"Yes," she said, her tone reverent as he sat up on his knees and pulled her garments off of her.

Draco lifted her ankle up near his shoulder with a light hand and nuzzled his nose along the inside of her calf. He kissed her skin and tasted it. He felt her toes flexing, pressing into his shoulder. She gasped again, the sounds urging his blood to the lower region of his body.

As he kissed his way down her leg, he heard her sniffling. A whimper escaped her lips right as he reached the inside of her knee and he paused. His hands caressed her leg, kneading the muscle.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she said, and she started to cry again. "I just don't think I'm good enough for you."

"You are," he said, remaining patient as he resumed his path to her core. He breathed in her scent, his tongue running through her arousal and causing her hips to nearly come up off of the floor. He kissed her in the place that made her thighs shake, and then looked up at her. "I want you to tell me how good you are for me, okay?"

She opened her mouth to answer, inhaling sharply. She made several attempts to answer, all while his lips suckled at her clit, but all she could manage were whimpers that decorated her weeping.

"Tell me," he breathed, his hands caressing her hips to pull her down closer. "Say you're good to me."

His tongue plunged inside of her.

"I-I'm good—I'm good t-to you," she stammered. Her fingers slipped beneath the hood of his jumper and trembled in his hair.

He pulled back again, one hand flat on the floor and the other searching between her legs for her entrance. When he found it, two fingers surged forward to hit her in the spot he could find ten times over in the dark.

"Tell me you're good with me," he ordered, thrusting his fingers in and out of her body with firm, hard strokes.

Her eyes were closed, her mouth gaping open. Her legs spread wider, her feet using the sturdiness of the floor to push her hips to meet his fingers thrust for thrust. She shook.

"I'm good— _Gods._ " Another whimper. "I'm g-good with you. We're— _ah_ —good together."

"Yes, we are," he purred, his hair falling into his face as he looked down to watch the outline of his ministrations in the darkness. "Now, tell me you're good for me, and I'll make you come."

Draco lowered back to the floor, his forearm and elbow holding him up as he fucked her with the fingers on his other hand. He ran his tongue over her clit. She let out a sob, one hand slapping flat against the floor. She hit an empty container and sent it clattering across the floor, knocking aside some of the food. She inhaled again and again and again, and then groaned.

"Oh, my—" came the words, desperate and pitchy. "I'm good for you. I'm being so good for you. I'm gonna come. Gods, fuck, I'm gonna come."

"Fuck," he moaned against her core, softening the strokes of his tongue and increasing the pace of his fingers. He heard the lewd noises as she grew wetter and it made his stomach coil with that familiar tightness. She tasted so _fucking_ good and the way she rode his tongue was like she was using it made him want to groan. She rode it like she knew exactly what she needed.

He wouldn't mind being used by her.

"Draco . . . I . . . G-Gentler— _Yes_. Right— _there!"_ she cried, her fingernails curling into the floor by her hips.

He felt one of her feet pressing its toes into his thigh. The other hit flat on the ground. She gave one more gasp, and then she was sobbing. Her orgasm shattered her into pieces, and she trembled with a violence. He could feel the stars shooting through her body like comets as they wrecked her.

When he kissed his way back up her body and settled between her thighs, he was surprised to feel her kissing him with an intensity that he hadn't expected. He turned his head to the side, his hands flat on the floor by her head as their tongues battled and fought. She arched her back up into him, her hips rolling in a way that felt like she was trying to pull him as close as she possibly could. Her fingers gripped, pulled, clung. They tugged, refusing to let him go.

This didn't feel like a dream. This felt real.

They broke apart for a moment, their eyes meeting. The moonlight made her look pale. The tear tracks that glistened on her face were fresh.

"Why are you crying, love?" he whispered, his gaze bouncing back and forth between her eyes and her lips.

"Because," she said, her lip trembling. She held his face with both of her hands. "I want it to be you."

" _Because I don't want any part of them to be a part of me anymore. I feel safe with you. I want it to be_ _you_."

Christmas night.

His brows twitched together, confusion bleeding through the haze of his intense, deep-rooted lust for her. After everything he'd done to her this week—after every mistake he'd made—she still felt safe with him? The way she was looking up at him, with a yearning that he knew mirrored his own . . .

If they did this. If they made this step, there'd be no reversing the bond. No more contemplation. No more discussion of what if. They would be bonded. The star bond would register them as soulmates, their destinies intertwined together for the rest of their lives. They'd be together until the cosmos imploded and the stars faded.

Until eternity.

It was more than a big step. It was the final step. It would solve none of their problems. It would neither heal her nor save her.

But he wanted it more than anything.

Was she sure?

She caressed his jaw, her fingers fluttering to tilt it to the side. His arms shook as she began to kiss his neck. Any sense of control he had maintained faltered. His eyelids fluttered and he moaned at the softness and the tingling shocks that shot through him. One hand still on the floor, he cupped the back of her head and pushed his throat into the grazing of her teeth.

"Please," she whispered, her lips mouthing at his earlobe. It caused his hips to involuntary jerk forward, pressing intimately against her. "Please, Draco. I need it to be you."

He shuddered when she bit his earlobe, moving to grab the braids at the back of her head. He dragged her head back, baring his teeth. Their hips rolled together, an absentminded expression of their fervor.

"Do you want me to fuck you right here on the floor?"

The look on her face turned desperate as a fresh set of tears made their way down her cheeks. "Yes. Yes, please."

He let out a sound of frustration at his infernal hesitancy. His hand wrapped around the top of her throat, pulling her up into a wild kiss that showed her that it was taking everything in him to hold himself back. She needed to be sure. _He_ needed to be sure that _she_ was sure. It wouldn't be a mistake—he would take care of her, he knew he would.

But what if she regretted it?

His mind was like the inside of a crystal in the sunlight, multi-faceted planes of diamond reflecting all the colors of the rainbow. And inside of each color was another year he could spend with Hermione. Another year where they were happy, healthy, and together. It was more than the bond. More than a glimpse of eternity.

It was everything he wanted.

His hips rolled against hers, the front of his denims rubbing against her wet core. She broke the kiss to cry out in pleasure. She writhed beneath him, wanton as she ground up against his hardness without shame or care.

"Do you really want this?" He growled into her mouth, squeezing her throat tighter. "Do you want me to fuckyou, Hermione?"

" _Please_ ," she moaned, and it sounded like it was being dragged up out of the depths of her lungs. "I'll do anything. Just _please_. I can't wait anymore."

The last chain wrapped around his neck broke apart, the metaphorical metal shattering like glass.

Draco slammed his lips against hers, swallowing her sobs and tasting the salt of her tears on her lips. She didn't stop weeping, not even for a second, even as she grabbed the hem of his jumper and started to yank it upward. They pulled apart to work together to get it off of him. Her hands went to his belt, tugging the tail out of the loops and buckle. He reached over the back of his head to pull his tee shirt off, and then her hand was inside of his trousers.

The colors in his mind swirled together.

" _Ah, fuck_! Fucking Hell."

Her fingers were wrapped around him, moving up and down. She pushed his trousers and then his pants down over the swell of his rear. Her back hit the floor and he felt her guiding his cock to slide along her center. The feeling was overwhelming, compounded by the knowledge that they weren't going to stop this time. That his heart beat for her, and they weren't gonna stop.

This was happening. They were doing this. Once they made this decision, she was his and he was hers.

Gods, did she deserved to be loved. She deserved to be held, kissed, touched, fucked, and _loved_. She deserved everything she every wanted, no matter what.

No matter what.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he whispered into her ear, his arms straining from holding himself still. "You know that this is forever?"

"Yes," she said, and she smiled through her tears and the darkness of the kitchen. "I know what it means, and I want this with you. I want eternity."

He groaned again, the words alone almost enough to make him want to lose his senses. His hips rolled and her hand went slack around him. She sucked in her breath as the head of his cock slipped inside as if by accident. A shiver ran through his body and he bit his lip. He ran his fingers down to the bottom of her shirt and dragged it up, exposing her breasts. Beautiful.

"You," he said, on his knees before her like she was a goddess, "are mine." He gripped her knee and pushed, spreading her wider for him as he sunk deeper into her body. "You're mine to kiss." He went deeper. "To hold." Deeper. "To touch." And deeper still. "To _fuck_."

He slammed in the rest of the way, relishing in the sound of her cry when he sank to the hilt. Her cunt was the epitome of a dream, and it threatened to shatter his heart from the sheer bliss of it. Like velvet wrapped around him, scorching hot in the sort of way that made him never want to leave.

"Look at me now, sweet girl," he gasped when he pulled out and slid back in with an agonizingly-slow thrust. She did, and the intensity of her eyes on his wracked through him. " _Fuck_ , you feel so fucking good."

"Please go harder," she whimpered, her hips trying to urge him faster. "I need it harder."

"Not yet," he whispered, continuing the slow ebbs and flows of his movements. He wanted to remember this. He wanted to commit this moment to memory. The moonlight washing over the far side of the floor. The shadows dancing across her face. Her swollen, parted lips. Her braids, fanned around her head like a crown. The heaving of her breasts, which fit perfectly in his hands like they were made for him. The feeling of her cunt, which felt like he was made for it.

"You are a beautiful person, Draco," she breathed, sounding emotional. "But I thought you left me."

"I'm here," he murmured, dipping his head down to kiss first her left nipple and then her right. His tongue laved against them, causing her to shiver. "I'm not going anywhere ever again."

She reached up with one hand, her fingers sliding into his hair at his hairline. Her gaze washed over him, another tear slipping down the side of her cheek and towards her ear. There was affection in her eyes, trust, and something he didn't dare question. He nuzzled his head into her touch, the blissful feeling causing his hips to jerk forward.

 _Fuck_.

Hermione moaned, a short, surprised sound as he hit a spot inside of her that she liked. They stared at one another as he gave her one more long, slow thrust. He made sure to hit the spot again, his lips twitching up into a smirk when she shivered.

And then she began to cry again.

"I love you."

His hips stilled for a moment. He stared at her, all of the colors in his mind momentarily bleaching white.

_What?_

"Please," she sobbed. "Please believe me. I'm so sorry I made you think I wasn't that sick. I was scared. I'm so scared of you and the way you make me feel. It's overwhelming and when things get overwhelming, I run away. You fight for me. You fight for me every day, even when it's me you have to fight, and it makes me want to get better. It makes me feel like I can see something in myself worth saving. I don't deserve it, but I want it. I want it so badly. I want you. I love you, Draco. I love you and I'm sorry. I want to get better. I mean it. I want to—"

He didn't care about any of it—their problems, the things that could go wrong, or the hurdles they were currently facing. She loved him. She _loved_ him, and he could tell it was real. Her tears were real. Her trust was real.

After everything they'd been through together, after Paris, after what he'd done this morning, she _loved_ him.

He surged forward and cut her off with a violent kiss, and then he _fucked_ her.

She threw her arms up on the floor by her head, her hands curling into fists as he slammed into her again and again, fucking her exactly like she deserved to be fucked. She took his cock like it belonged to her, the tightness of her channel devouring him. His fingers pressed bruises into her hip as he leaned over her, pinning her down so she could do nothing more than squirm, moan, and beg. Her eyes rolled.

"Say it again," he begged through his teeth, clenching them to hold back his desire to start crying at the sheer closeness he felt to her. "Please say it to me again."

"I love you," she said.

"You're so fucking beautiful to me, Hermione." He never relented his pace. "Perfect for me. Just perfect."

Her fingers came up to smooth across the tattoos that adorned his chest and abdomen. He felt the muscles flexing, pulling taut as he thrust so hard that he was starting to see stars. It felt so fucking good. She was so fucking good.

He sucked his fingers into his mouth and reached between their sweating bodies to play with her clit. Her body immediately went limp, contrasting with the desperate, tight strain of her moaning. He thrust firm and stroked slow, dragging her towards a second climax.

"Gonna come on my cock?" he growled when he felt her legs start their familiar quivering.

She gasped again and then made a pained expression, nodding frantically.

"Say it while you come," he whined. "Please, fucking say it while you _fucking_ come."

Her back arched once more, her eyes rolling up into her head as he played the strings of her violin like he'd been doing it for years. She created a symphony in his heart with her words and climbing moans.

"I love you," she sang, and it would forever be his favorite song. "I love you, Draco."

She came, her walls clenching down on him like a vice and holding him tight. He heard her whimpering, felt her shuddering and convulsing, and his thrusting stuttered.

The song crested and he lost control.

The notes harmonized with the tune of his body. It wound tightly around him and inside of him, pulling him to a crescendo from which he couldn't catch his escaping breath. His chest spasmed and he gasped. He gripped her other knee and pushed them both towards her chest, until he was fucking down into her like he was searching for something to the tune of her euphoric wailing.

He found it, whatever it was, and the words fell out of him as he hung on the precipice.

"Fuck, I love you so fucking much," he breathed, his lips frantic against her jaw. "I love you. I'll do anything for you. Anything. Just—wrap your arms around me. Please, please do it. Do it."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. Draco pushed her thighs open, causing him to sink to the absolute deepest place he could go inside of her. Hermione groaned, throaty and delirious as she laid there. Her face burrowed into his neck to stifle her moans as he rammed into her again and again and again and—

He came with his tongue against her pulse and his hands gripping her rear. Pulling her closer, holding her against him as he emptied himself into her. The pleasure was immense. So immense that he whimpered into the junction of her neck and shoulder.

They laid there to catch their breath, his head pillowed on her bare chest and her fingers trailing up and down his back in circular patterns that were as lazy as they were calculated. The colors in the jewel of his mind had separated again, flickering across his mind with a warmth that felt connected to her own.

She loved him.

Hermione loved him, and Draco loved her.

And they were bonded.

He could feel it, just like the magical core connections in Divination. Though, this was much more intense. Like a thread of magic stretched between them. Indestructible and comforting, it was only visible to him when he looked for it. If he didn't look for it, then he knew it was there as long as he focused. He'd never be alone again.

His heart didn't feel quite so broken anymore.

After a few minutes, Hermione started to make sounds of discomfort, and he knew they needed to get up off of the floor. They extracted themselves from one another and got to their feet. Hermione glanced around at the floor.

"Should we clean this up?" she asked, and he heard a hint of shame coloring her tone.

"Tomorrow," he murmured, bending to kiss her as he zipped his denims and dropped his belt to the ground. "Let's go to bed."

"Okay," she said against his lips. "Together?"

He nodded, and it felt like another milestone. One they'd already reached but that they'd had to earn with one another all over again.

Twinging their fingers together, they left their discarded clothing and walked to the hallway. The full moon looked so bright that Draco nearly squinted. In the hall, Hermione went to use the loo with the door open, and Draco waited for her. She came out and he put an arm around her shoulders so he could escort her into his room.

"Your wand," she whispered, sounding exhausted as she settled beneath the coverlet. "I need it."

He grabbed it from the bedside table and handed it to her without a thought. She cast an after-sex contraceptive charm and then returned the wand to him, her eyes half-shut with exhaustion.

"How Hermione Granger of you," he said, smirking as he dropped the wand onto the floor. He decided to remove his trousers, not wanting to feel constricted while he slept. "Covering all your bases."

"Yeah, well." She yawned. "It may not be necessary, but it doesn't hurt to do it anyway."

He pulled the blanket back and slid in beside her, smiling faintly as she curled up against his torso. "Why wouldn't it be necessary? You're the one who said—"

"Draco, I haven't had my cycle in months," she said quietly, her hand flat on his chest. "I don't know if I _could_ get pregnant."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Just like that, his heart was sinking again. He wrapped his arms around her, cuddling her close and pressing his lips against her forehead.

He loved her. They'd get through it.

"I don't mean to say that so nonchalantly, either," Hermione mumbled through another jaw-breaking yawn. "I'm just tired. I know it's serious, and I know I did it to myself. But I wanted to be honest."

"Yeah."

She was trying. That's what mattered. Even if it made him sad.

He drifted off with his witch in his arms, which was exactly where they both deserved to be.

_I won't stop fighting for her. I won't stop, and this time, I'll do it right._

_She's worth it_.


	40. Chapter 40

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Eight**

They woke almost at the same time.

Draco's eyelids dragged up, his mind pulling him into waking moments before Hermione's did, and then they gazed at one another.

He remembered what it felt like to walk in on what he'd seen—to walk in on her having lost control. She'd thought he'd left her. She'd thought he'd given up on her and in that moment, he wasn't so sure he hadn't. But when he saw the way she looked at him, like she was just so ashamed and so desolate, he'd realized that the only reason why she'd completely fallen apart was because of him.

Because he'd told her he was leaving.

He hadn't been able to hold himself back. As much as he wanted to—as many problems as they still had and things they needed to work through, the moon was full and she was giving herself to him. She was begging him, pleading with him to never leave her again. He didn't _want_ to leave her. He could see their future now, their eternity laid out in stones beneath their feet, and he wanted to walk that path with her at his side.

Lying here now, facing one another in his bed without clothes and without barriers, he could feel it.

He could feel it, the magic traveling inside of him like a second skin. It felt warm and present, much like the previous afternoon in Divination when they'd practiced magical core connections. He felt her and when she looked at him, he could tell she felt him, too.

They were bonded.

Her hand slid up his chest, her eyes following the movement as she trailed it up to the hair at the nape of his neck. Her fingers curled inward, nails scraping his skin, and then she pulled herself closer to his body. The look in her eyes turned heavy, weighing him down with her desire as she hooked a leg over his hip and pressed their lips together.

They rolled until Draco was on his back beneath the coverlet, Hermione grinding atop him with his hands cinching her waist. The feeling of her body, hot and wet as her nudity slid over his caused him to break their kiss to gasp. His arms took over, hands gripping tight as he moved her harder against him, back and forth. His back arched, stomach coiling tight enough to make him groan.

Gods, she could make him fucking come like this.

"Inside," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear and causing him to shiver. "I want you inside me."

"Yeah?" he growled, still half-asleep but hard and aching as the head of him notched her entrance. "Is that what you want, sweet girl? Tell me what you want."

"I want to make you come for me."

"You wanna be in control?" He mouthed at the skin below her jaw, panting when the slickness of her heat nearly swallowed him inward.

"Yeah," she whimpered.

"That's right," he breathed. "You're in control, love. You're in— _ah_ —control."

One more roll of her hips and he slipped inside, the tightness of her channel pulling him deeper than bodies could go. Deeper than the oceans of the Earth, and deeper still.

"Fuck," he said, and it was a whine as he threw his head back against the pillow. His fingers dug into the flesh of her rear, pulling her hard and fast against him. She used her knees, sliding up and down along his length as she chased her climax into the stars. He felt his stomach coiling tighter. Too tight. "Please— _Gods_ , fucking . . ."

Draco lost his thoughts as she rose up with her hands flat on his chest, the foundation of his torso enabling her to go faster. He slid the fingers of one hand into his hair, his muscles twitching.

It felt too good.

Too good and too intense. He simply laid there in a delirium while she fucked him to the edge of universe and back. The look on her face was sublime, ecstasy mixed with determination. The ends of her braids tickled his bare skin with each lift and fall of her hips.

Draco felt it rising up, coming towards him like an earthquake rolling across the bed of the sea. His cock throbbed, pulsing with his desire to fall apart. He felt helpless, like even if he didn't want to come, she wasn't going to let him breathe until he did. His gaze flitted back and forth between her biting her lower lip and the way her breasts bounced.

"You're gonna—" He moaned louder than he probably should have, desperation causing him to lift up on one elbow so he could watch himself split her apart. So he could watch her eradicate him like a nova in space. "Oh, _my—fuck. You're_ gonna make me _fucking_ come."

His other hand snapped up to wrap around her throat, her eyelids fluttering and breath rattling as he squeezed. Her hips jerked, faster and harder. Hard enough to bruise. He was right on the edge, every vein singing as he thrust up from below. He was ten thousand percent certain she wasn't going to finish like this, but at this point, he was too far gone to give a damn.

"Please, please," he whispered, the words falling unbidden from his lips like rainwater from a grey sky. He didn't know if he was begging for her, or begging to come. He just knew his need was a knife in the center of his chest. "Please—fuck— _please,_ Hermione."

"Are you gonna come for me, Draco?" she asked, her voice altogether much too sweet for how sinful she felt inside.

"Mmhm," he hummed, brows pulling together as he whimpered in his chest. He nodded, frantic movements of his head as he hurtled closer to the edge. "Yeah. Fuck—I—Please don't fucking stop. Please—"

It ripped up his spine and across his psyche, the tidal wave of his orgasm crashing into him. He cried out another gravelly _fuck_ as he grabbed her hips and lifted her off of him, pulling out just in time for him to give her everything he had to give her. The waves of pleasure dragged a couple more moans out of him, and then he fell back against the pillows.

Hermione smiled, panting for breath as she gazed down at him. She opened her mouth, starting to speak, but Draco was already moving.

He grabbed her by the hips and lifted her up. Simultaneously, he slid down on the bed. When his knees bent and feet hit the floor, he let go of her. She yelped as her pelvis came down, her core landing right on his waiting mouth. He felt her entire body convulsing as his tongue laved against her clit, tasting the muskiness of her arousal and his come.

"Wh—Wait—you don't—" She cried out again as his fingers reached around to slip inside of her, searching and probing. Her body didn't seem to know what to do—move backward to focus on the inside, or grind downward to focus on his tongue—and she wailed.

She always acted so surprised when he made her come.

" _Oh_ , harder," she groaned, her voice small. "Suck harder. Harder, harder, harder."

He obeyed, and she spread her thighs wider, leaning forward to grip the headboard. Her hips jerked again, tiny movements as he heard her hold her breath in her chest. He moved his fingers faster, slamming them inside of her in a way that had her flesh moving and his forearm muscle aching.

The way she liked it.

And then she came, violently and with a sobbing, keening moan, her pelvis rolling to meet the cadence of his tongue as he tasted the depths of her. He moaned, too, from the sheer eroticism of it. By the time she had collapsed to the side, he was propped up on his elbow. He ran his hand down her side, smirking down at her.

"Good morning."

She smiled, lazy and like she was floating through a dream. "Shut up."

"Time to get ready." He smacked her on the rear and bit his lip. She batted his hand away and sat up, some of her braids falling forward. He reached up to push his fingers through them, tucking them behind her ear. "We're going to London today."

"Yes."

"With Theo."

She raised an eyebrow, looking a bit confused. "Yes, and Pansy and Blaise."

Before he could think of what to respond with, she clambered out of bed and grabbed one of his shirts off of his messy floor. She pulled it on and then went to the loo.

Draco rolled onto his back, reaching up to rub at his eyes as he adjusted to being awake. After a shower, he was sure he'd feel better but right then, he felt like he was covered in a layer of something grimy. Now that he and Hermione had consummated their bond, he didn't want anything from the previous week to linger. He was going to do everything in his power to try to make things right.

He dressed in nonchalance that day, tugging on another pair of ripped denims and a long-sleeved black shirt. Then, he frowned at himself in the mirror.

There was once a time where he would have thoroughly enjoyed going to the city with Theo. Theo was his best mate and the person that he had always been closest to. Someone he'd managed to stay friends with even through the war. The argument they'd had in Hogsmeade back in November had made it clear to Draco that Theo was the one who harbored reservations against him. His resentment had come long before Draco's.

Did Theo fancy Hermione? Was that the reason why he'd been so invested in everything about Hermione from the beginning of the year? Draco had known that she was friends with him, but he hadn't started suspecting Theo might have feelings until that night under the falling snow. Not that it was Draco's place at the time to feel any type of irritation by that, but now?

Now, Hermione was his.

The vibes Theo gave him regarding Hermione weren't going to matter anymore. Hermione and Draco were bonded and no matter how much Theo fancied her, she wasn't going anywhere. Not as long as the threat of an incomplete heart hung heavy over her head.

He hoped she didn't chase the emptiness there, too.

That was, of course, presuming she fancied Theo back. At any point in time, Draco understood that it was entirely possible that she could have liked him back. They could have had a relationship that no one knew about. There had been plenty of times where he saw Hermione with Theo—times that he'd never asked about, nor had he received an inkling as to the reasons for.

 _Crack_.

Draco jolted, looking down. His hand had clenched into a fist at his side, causing his knuckles to pop. He took a deep breath, flexing his fingers as he fought back the sudden wave of fury that rolled across his disposition.

Theo had been his friend at one point. That alone was enough to keep him from breaking the loyalty he felt towards him for that. He wouldn't cause problems with his friend.

Provided Theo kept his hands off of what was his.

After smoking the last of the weed together, Draco and Hermione headed out of the common room.

They made their way down the corridor towards the exit that led out to the forest path. They were meeting the others at the train platform and they were a bit late, so they walked at a brisk pace. Draco couldn't stop worrying about how things were going to be with Theo there, hoping that nothing too dramatic went down.

"Here, come here," he drawled, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her close to his side as they walked. "You gonna sit with me in a compartment?"

Her face contorted with amusement. "Where else would I sit? We aren't sitting together?"

He looked down at her.

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Draco."

"It's a long trip."

She giggled. Actually laughed, for the first time in what felt like years, and smacked his stomach with the back of her hand.

"What do you think you're gonna do, you prat?!" she exclaimed, eyes shining with mirth.

"Fuck you in the train compartment," he said as though it were the dumbest question he'd ever heard. His fingers squeezed the sides of her neck a bit, feeling her braids shifting beneath his palm. "Obviously."

"Draco, we are absolutely in no way, shape, or form doing _anything_ on the train," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're sitting with our friends."

_Our._

_Our friends._

"Shame," he murmured, letting go of her neck. "We'll never get to find out how many times I can make you come on the Hogwarts Express. Seems like a missed milestone, but okay."

"Oh, you can put that back, though."

"Put what back?"

Her lips curled up. "Your hand."

With narrow-eyed look, he returned his hand to the back of her neck, his thumb caressing her skin gently when he did.

* * *

Theo didn't show up.

In fact, the only person who did was Pansy. She came dashing up with her coat tugged on over her pyjamas, a concerned look on her pale face. After a quick " _we already had the day excused,"_ she explained that Blaise had come down with a cold and they couldn't go anymore.

"What about Theo?" Draco asked, his hand still on the back of Hermione's neck. The train hadn't arrived yet and the temperature outside was so cold that he could feel it seeping through his pea coat. "Is he still coming Saturday?"

"He said no," Pansy said, hands on her hips as she tried to catch her breath. Her gaze met Draco's, the suspended silence telling. "We can reschedule the trip for next weekend, though."

Draco nodded. "Yeah, that's fine."

Then, Pansy looked down at Hermione. "You guys look happy. What did he do, propose?"

Hermione coughed and Draco looked to the right, into the distance of the train tracks to hide his grin.

"Not exactly," Hermione answered. "We're just having a good morning."

Draco shook her gently, in an affectionate way while smirking down at Pansy. "A very good morning."

Pansy pulled a face. "Okay, ew. Literally. I'm off."

She took a deep breath, starting to walk backward. Her hair was pulled up into a haphazard bun at the top of her head, and it flopped as she turned to look at the steps down from the platform.

"I've got to get back to Blaise. Sorry for the short notice, guys! Enjoy the day off!"

While she sprinted back off towards the castle, Hermione let out a pleasant sigh.

"I really like her. I'm glad we ended up becoming friends this year. I wish she hadn't fallen prey to Pureblood prejudices. She's one of my best friends now."

Draco raised his eyebrow. "You guys spend a lot of time together?"

"Yes, and we send notes in class. We have a special parchment we use to write when we're in different rooms. And I've got a class with her besides Charms, so we sit together."

"I'm glad you guys get along now," he said, his hands rubbing her upper back absentmindedly. "Circe knows I couldn't have taken another day of you two launching yourselves at one another in the Great Hall."

"Gods, you say that so suspiciously." Hermione turned to face him, her arms sliding around his waist as she let her head fall back to maintain eye contact with him. "She must have really hated me before."

 _You have_ no _idea._

"She wasn't your biggest supporter, no," he murmured, hunching his shoulders so he could drop a kiss onto her lips. "Why don't we go to London anyway?"

She gasped when he pulled away. "Are you certain?"

Draco shrugged. "Blaise reserved the hotel room."

"What if he already canceled it?"

"We'll just make a new one."

She pursed her lips. "An entire weekend alone with you? I dunno . . ."

When he tickled her sides, she laughed. It sounded like music.

It took a couple more moments, but finally, he got her to agree to come to London with him. The train showed up at eleven, exactly as it was supposed to, and then they picked a random compartment. They sat down across from one another, Draco with one foot up on the seat beside her and Hermione with her legs crossed underneath her on the cushion. She looked out the window.

He looked at her.

* * *

After handling the hotel—which still had their reservation in their systems—and Apparating to Diagon to exchange their galleons for pounds, Draco and Hermione decided to go to lunch.

She ate like normal and Draco was so ecstatic to see it that he felt like he was floating up to the sky. She didn't seem anxious or upset, and she laughed and smiled at the snarky remarks he made like she used to do. He knew better than to make any comments, and he knew not to get _too_ excited. They were together, they were bonded, and they were having a good time.

That did not mean that she was better.

The diamond necklace he'd given her was clasped around her neck, sitting pretty against the long-sleeved black shirt she'd worn that day. She'd also chosen to wear high-heeled black boots and a pair of black denims that were skin-tight from hip to ankle. When they'd stopped in the hotel room to check it out, she'd pulled her braids up into a ponytail at the top of her head, and now the tails hung over the front of her left shoulder.

"I see you matched me today," he murmured as he speared some of his food with his fork. He smirked at her. "Would you like to wear my skin, too?"

"Get over it," she said, taking a large bite of her own meal. She wrinkled her nose, her catlike brown eyes glimmering. "I wanted to be comfortable. What's more comfortable than denims and a shirt?"

"Nudity."

"Draco, shut up. For Godric's sake." She laughed around a mouthful of food. "If you don't like my outfit, you'll just have to accept it. It's what I'm wearing."

"Hermione, you look beautiful," he said, one eyebrow up. "I like your outfit."

"Quit playing," she said, but there was a blush staining her cheeks.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, both of their gazes flitting about the rather quaint restaurant they'd chosen. They currently sat at a small, square table with a white tablecloth and a vase of daisies in the center of it. The establishment wasn't too full, but there were enough people that they weren't looking around at nothing.

"So, what do you want to do next?" she asked, picking up another bite. "I'm almost done eating."

"Get a tattoo."

She snorted. "As if you don't already have 3,500. You don't need another one."

"But I _want_ another one," he purred, smirking and setting his fork down. He bit his lip, leaning back nonchalantly in the chair and sinking down into it. "Are you telling me I can't have what I want?"

She scowled and threw her gaze up towards the ceiling. "Draco, you can have whatever you want."

"Oh, I know. I have you."

Her cheeks flamed red once again. "You're laying it on thick today."

He rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair, his right forearm on the other arm. He rubbed his chin with his left hand, studying her. "How much thicker do I need to lay it on to convince you?"

"Convince me to what? To go with you while you get another unnecessary tattoo?" The fork disappeared into her mouth again. She gave him a thoughtful look. "I'm gonna need another kilometer."

"If you go with me to get a tattoo, my beautiful, illustrious, stunning witch, I will take you to a bookstore."

She spluttered on her water and began to laugh uncontrollably. A hand pressed to her stomach and her eyes twinkled with her amusement. An incredulous look was leveraged in his direction.

"Is this what I have to look forward to?!" she said, still giggling. "An eternity of you getting more tattoos until you have to start putting them on _me_?!"

He perked up. "You want one?"

"What? No, I . . . I can't get a _tattoo_."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said. "Because—"

"Why not?"

"It's mental."

"Mental? You think I'm mental?" He raised his eyebrows again.

"No, but—well, I mean—" She let out a nervous laugh. "Draco, I can't get a tattoo."

"Why not?"

"What would I even _get_?"

He shrugged. "Anything. Most of mine don't mean anything. A few do, like the ones on my neck and the dragon on my back. But the rest are just fuck-all."

She leaned back, tapping a finger to her chin. "Well . . . All right. Maybe something small."

"No," he said. "Cover your entire back."

At the look of horror on her face, he couldn't hold it in. He held the inside of his fist to his lips as he burst out laughing. He waved a hand and shook his head.

"Hermione," he said, still laughing. "I'm only joking."

She shot him a stern look and then sighed. "I'll think about it, but yes—we can go and _you_ can get one."

He grinned.

* * *

They went to the same tattoo parlor that Draco had been to multiple times over the Summer.

He and Blaise had been there more times than he could count, sometimes so Draco could get more than one tattoo per day. Draco had lucked out with a tattoo artist he felt friendly with, who was open to doing more than one sitting in a day because they got along so well. And since Draco often allowed the artist the freedom to draw whatever he wanted, effectively turning himself into a walking human canvas, it was a symbiotic relationship that had led him to the place he was now.

Covered.

After going to Gringotts a second time to pull out even more money from his personal account, they Apparated to a part of London that Draco knew well.

When Draco held the door open for Hermione to duck underneath his arm, his gaze swept the expanse of the medium-sized shop. There were five open stations scattered around the edges of the room, all decorated to match the aesthetics of the artists who sat inside of them, and three of them had artists in them. The buzz of tattoo machines felt like a familiar comfort to Draco, but in a somber way.

He remembered using that buzz to fill the void in his chest.

As they walked up to the counter, where a girl with baby bangs and bright green hair stood, Draco spotted his tattoo artist in the far right corner.

Diego had his black hair slicked back against the top of his head, the sides shaved to reveal the tattoos on the sides of his head. His skin was so decorated in colorful tattoos that not a speck of bare flesh remained save for that of his face. He looked up from wiping down the chair, and his eyes lit up.

"Ayy, it's you!"

Draco's face split into a grin as he greeted him, his hand going to the back of Hermione's neck beneath her ponytail made of braids. "Ayy, it's me! What's up?"

"Not much, not much." Diego looked genuinely happy to see him. "I thought we wouldn't be seeing you again for a while. You said you were going back to school."

"Yeah, I did," Draco said with a laugh. "Still am. We just skived off."

Diego smirked as he headed over to the counter and stood beside the green-haired girl. "Wouldn't expect less from you."

"You got any openings today?"

"For you, my love?" Diego said, still grinning. "Absolutely. What are we thinking today?"

As they conversed, one of the other artists in the shop—someone new that Draco didn't recognize from the Summer—looked up from the woman he was tattooing the forearm of. His gaze washed over Draco, who was now leaning over the counter with his hands flat on top of it, and then it landed on Hermione. It swept the length of her body and then back up. And there it stayed.

Hermione didn't seem to notice. She was too busy looking at the shop, taking in the sights of the décor and the ink drawings that the artists had smattered all over the walls. She bobbed her head absentmindedly to the Muggle rock music that played over the speakers, her hands curved along the front edge of the counter and tapping away to the tune.

"All right, let's get this shite going," Diego said. "Follow me to the chair."

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Hermione murmured quickly as they took their coats off and hung them on the rack the green-haired receptionist pointed out. "I thought you said you were stretching your money out."

The money he had _was_ supposed to last him. But that was before he'd gone to see his father with her. There was now something inside of him that told him that he wasn't going to freeze his father out forever.

He just wasn't sure when he would be ready to start thinking about tackling the guilt at the same time as forgiveness.

"It's fine," he said with an air of finality hovering about both him and his voice. "Don't worry."

She gave him a look of suspicion but seemed to disregard it. Her heels _clack_ ed against the wooden floor as she followed him over to the station. She sat down on the stool that Diego pulled up on the other side of the chair, and then Diego took the other stool. He began to prepare his tools and ink.

"You sure we got room left?" Diego asked.

Draco reached over the back of his head to tug his long-sleeved shirt off. His eyes met Hermione's as he stood there, shirtless, and handed it to her. He could see her struggling not to look at his torso and it made him want to smirk.

He wanted to tell her it was okay to look.

"Yeah, we got some here on my chest."

Diego studied the tattoos on Draco's neck and chest, gaze moving from the chains and roses down to the twin serpents, thorns, and celestial things that spanned the skin. He nodded to himself.

"Yeah, there's some room. I'll fill in the extra space, and then add the clock face below it."

"You mean right there?" Draco gestured to himself.

"Yes, there. On your sternum, where the snake's tails come down."

"Ace."

He lowered himself into the chair. "D'you think we could do it black-and-grey but with like, a hint of red?"

"Yeah, we could do that, McGreedy."

"Shut your arse up," Draco said, laughing.

He jolted when he felt fingers sliding gently against his back, horizontal along the spines of the dragon's head. They trailed down its neck, traveling over his vertebrae on their way to the wings. As Hermione traced each spike on its wings, he felt a shiver run through him. His skin rippled.

Diego said, "Okay, go ahead and lay back."

Draco smirked and drawled, "Why, wanna fuck me or something?"

"I'm going to cancel you," Diego said, but he was smiling, too. "Cancelled."

Hermione's fingers seemed to drag away from his body as Draco laid back. He lifted one knee, resting his foot on the seat as Diego pushed a lever to make it recline. Draco stretched one arm up and tucked his hand behind his head. The other, he let trail down to hang off of the chair. His fingers were within millimeters of Hermione's knee and the top of her calf.

After putting on latex gloves and wiping Draco's skin down, the buzzing began.

Draco gritted his teeth against the pain as the needle pressed into his skin. It started underneath his collarbone and etched its way towards his heart. It vibrated down to his bones and then he fell into the familiarity of it. It was something he knew. Something he could expect.

Something that made him forget.

"So, whatever happened with that girl?" Draco asked. "The one you were going with in August."

Diego chuckled, his gaze focused on his work. "Gone."

"No."

"Yes. Gone. She was out of there with the quickness."

"Ah, that sucks. You—" Draco hissed as the needle swirled up over the slope of the place where his collarbones nearly met. "Fuck. You said you liked her."

"I did." Diego's eyebrows shot up. "But I dunno. We went to this club and she was like, dancing with these guys. And I walked up to her and it just became a situation. You know how it is."

"Yeah."

Draco's fingers drifted up along the outside of Hermione's calf, but he kept his eyes focused on the bite of needle in flesh. It hurt like a burn—it was his chest, after all—but it felt so insignificant compared to what he felt inside every day since the Dark Lord came into his life. Since he took everything within him and turned it to shadows.

"So, why's this one so quiet?" Diego asked, raising his voice in a pleasant tone. "You just here to watch?"

Draco gave Hermione a half of a smile, watching as she lifted one of the arms that she'd folded in her lap to wave a dismissive hand.

"Oh, yeah. I'm just here to watch him," she said. "I don't have any tattoos."

Diego arched one eyebrow and exchanged amused glances with Draco, who spoke.

"I've been trying to convince her to get one. I don't think she's changed her mind yet."

Hermione pursed her lips.

Diego said, "Come on. What, are you worried about your mom having a panic attack?"

Draco cringed, but Hermione seemed to take it in stride.

"No, I am not," she said, chuckling. "I'm more worried about the pain. I don't know if I can handle it—my tolerance is so low."

As if on cue, Draco hissed again. He sucked air in through his teeth as Diego's needle outlined the left side of the clock face on his sternum. Hermione grimaced.

"Exactly," she said.

"It's really not that bad," Diego said. "Tell her, Draco."

"It really isn't," Draco said, even though his chest was on fire. "It's like a scratch."

"That doesn't look like it would feel like a scratch," Hermione challenged.

"Because he's lying to you, baby doll," Diego said, throwing his head back to laugh. "For real, though—it all matters where you get the damn thing. If you want it on your upper arm, it's no big deal. If you fuck around and get your first tattoo on your bloody face, then you're gonna have a bad time."

Draco laughed. "Yeah, get a face tattoo, Hermione."

She stared at him. " _You_ get a face tattoo."

"No, you."

They narrowed their eyes at one another. His fingers curled around her calf and he squeezed. Then, like flames ripping through a dying forest, evil spread her smile wide.

"If you get one on your face," she said, "then I'll get a tattoo."

Diego burst out laughing, so hard that he had to lift the needle. Draco glared at him and then shot Hermione a wicked grin.

"All right."

Her jaw dropped. "Are you . . . Wait, _really_?"

"Yeah."

Her brow furrowed and her eyes widened. "Boy, you got to be either stupid or insane. I'm not sure which."

"Which one makes you want to fuck me?"

Diego laughed again, his head thrown back. "You guys are cracking me _up_. Just go see Tomas over there. He'll fix you right up."

Hermione scowled and stood up. She smoothed out the front of her shirt and then crossed her arms over her chest. Her ponytail swung back, the ends of her braids swaying.

"What do I get?" she asked.

"Are you asking _me_? Are you serious?" Diego looked like he found her words horrifying. He looked at Draco. "Is she serious?"

A flash of panic crossed Hermione's face and Draco jumped to action.

"She's only joking. Hermione, you can get anything. It can be something you like, or you can just let the artist do whatever. What's important to you?"

She frowned, her gaze falling downward as her thoughts flickered across her face. Then, she dragged her eyes up and met his.

"Gardenias."

Draco felt something in his heart warming up, melting like snow beneath sunlight as he gazed up at her. He reached out to grip her hip in a show of affection, and then he looked at Diego.

"Well, then you can tattoo a gardenia on my face when we're done with this."

"Sure," Diego replied as the needle moved across to the other side of Draco's chest.

"And there you go," Draco said.

Hermione sighed and glanced across the shop. "I'll go over there, to that guy."

"Tomas," Diego supplied.

"Tomas," she said, and then she walked away.

In the silence that followed, Draco felt excited. He wondered how the tattoo would look. There was something intriguing about the idea of Hermione Granger going from being Hogwarts' resident bookworm to having a tattoo. Sure, he was covered in more than he could count, but he was Draco Malfoy. He was a former Death Eater. He'd fought on the wrong side of the war.

One tattoo on her body was worth more than every tattoo he had on his body.

"That your girl?" Diego asked.

"Yeah," Draco said, voice a bit hoarse from laughing.

Diego smirked. "She's hot."

"So you wanna die. Okay. All right."

"Shut up," Diego said, both of them laughing. He resumed tattooing. "Anyway, about that girl from the Summer. She—"

"Diego?"

"Hm?"

"Call her baby doll again, and I'll slit your throat."

The tattoo gun continued to buzz, even as it stopped moving. Diego gave him an incredulous look, to which Draco responded with a slow smirk.

Diego rolled his eyes. "I can't with you."

Draco ran his tongue along his top teeth and glanced over to the right, across the shop at Hermione. The artist who had been looking at her when they entered the building was talking to her, his hands moving about as he described something to her. She had her arms crossed, her body language closed off, but something didn't sit right with Draco. Something about the way the guy looked at her made a serpent deep inside of his abdomen curl and twist in warning.

Then, when Hermione sat down in the chair and pulled her shirt down to expose her shoulder and drag her arm out through the collar, he felt the serpent rise.

"Di," he said, his gaze trained upon every movement of Tomas' hand.

"Yeah?"

"Who is Tomas?"

"Oh, him? Yeah, he's new. Been here about a month. He's got nice shading skills. Why?"

Draco said nothing, flinching when Diego's needle hit a tender spot. He clenched his teeth, watching the way Hermione turned her face away from Tomas's needle as he begun. She looked up, over at Draco, and glared at him.

"She's gonna kick your arse tonight, Draco," Diego said as he worked. "I can tell she's the type to cry."

"She doesn't look like she's crying to me," Draco countered.

Diego glanced over and let out another laugh. "You're right. She looks proper brassed off. Looks like you're just getting the arse-kicking tonight. Anyway, will you let me finish telling you about the shite that happened?"

"Yeah."

Draco fell silent, switching between listening to Diego talk and feeling the pain of the needle. As the time wore on, going from ten minutes to thirty, the burning increased to a point that it was starting to wear on him. He rested one hand on his stomach and slung the other arm across his eyes to block out the light. The foot that he'd placed on the chair beside his other knee remained, but the anxiety began to pound in his veins and expand in his chest.

"Don't fuck it up. Quit bouncing your leg," Diego said, his voice a concentrated murmur as he shaded in parts of the clock. The needle ran back and forth, back and forth over his skin. It felt like it was being rubbed raw.

"Fuck," Draco growled. "Don't fucking talk to me."

"Rude."

Draco's brows twitched together beneath his arm. He hadn't forgotten how bad his other chest tattoos had hurt, but he supposed he'd been too distracted by other things to put it to the forefront of his mind.

In the distance, beneath the sound of the loud music, he could hear the murmur of Hermione's voice. It mingled with Tomas' laughter and made the serpent in Draco's stomach launch itself up to his chest.

He felt like it was taking the artist way too long to tattoo a fucking flower. As important as the flower was, did it _need_ to take this long?

"That shite should have taken twenty minutes," Draco said through his teeth, trying to bear the feeling of the needles on his sternum.

"Don't be ridiculous," Diego said. "An hour at least."

"Well, what size is she getting? Can you look?"

"I'm _legit_ trying to tattoo you right now."

"Just _fucking_ —look, will you?"

After a pause, Diego said, "It's the front, top, and side of her shoulder, mate. He's got the outline done and he's starting the shading now."

"Stupid."

Diego chuckled but said nothing.

More time passed and soon, he could hear Hermione's laughter. He couldn't tell if it was fake or real and it made him want to spring up and walk over there. He just wanted to _see_ what they were doing. To know what they were talking about.

What if Tomas was making her uncomfortable? What if the only reason why she was laughing was to disarm him into thinking she wasn't? What if this was like Paris, when she tried to talk her way out of—

"Di, I gotta go over there," he said. "Like, you don't understand."

"No, you don't," Diego replied. "And _quit_ bouncing your _fucking_ leg."

"They're laughing too much."

"Because he's hitting on her."

Draco felt a violent rage flaring within his body, but Diego suspected it. He lifted the needle from Draco's skin and pressed his hand flat to his shoulder.

"If you get up, I swear to God."

"You just told me that—"

"Tomas hits on _every_ girl who comes in here that's even _remotely_ attractive to him." Diego sounded annoyed. He brought the needle back to Draco's skin, and none-too-gently. "Now, suck it up, shut up, and lay there. _And quit bouncing your leg_."

Draco grumbled curse words to himself for a long second, keeping his forearm over his eyes to stave off the headache.

Even with water breaks, he could feel himself reaching his limit by the time another hour had passed. The combination of the scraping needles, Hermione and Tomas' barely audible and absolutely _fun_ conversation, and the thought of her freaking out and breaking down later made him want to scream. His chest felt like it was bathing in something infernal.

"How's it going so far?" Hermione's voice came to fruition beside him.

Draco lifted his arm a bit, cracking open one eye. He hoped she could see how irritated he was.

"It feels like Hell," he snarled. "How'd it go for _you,_ Chatty?"

She sat down on the stool. With a ginger hand, she pulled the neckline of her shirt aside, revealing the plastic covering her new tattoo.

It was indeed a gardenia, black-and-grey in color, and it spanned the majority of her shoulder. The petals stretched over the end of her collarbone, down towards her bicep, and around the side as though reaching toward her back. The leaves as well as the bottoms of the petals looked like they'd been shaded darker than the rest of the tattoo. It really was gorgeous work, but Draco hated the fact that Tomas had had his hands on her.

He knew he was being ridiculous. Possessive and maybe a bit too protective, but it was difficult. It was difficult knowing what she'd been through and how hard it was for her to even get to a point where Draco could touch her. For another man to have his _hands_ all over her for _any_ reason . . .

But she looked happy.

"Do you like it?" she said.

"Oh, Hell yeah," Diego said. "It looks sick. Tomas always does such clean lines."

"I really like it," she replied, still sounding excitable and energetic. "It didn't even hurt as bad as I thought. Well, I mean, some parts did, but for the most part, it was just like, a vibration."

"Even better," Diego said, and then he resumed the shading on Draco's tattoo.

"So, do you like it, Draco?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, his teeth still clenched.

"You don't sound like you do."

"Well, I do," he snapped.

Diego cleared his throat. "He's in a lot of pain. Just ignore him."

"Fuck you."

Hermione tsked. "Draco, don't be rude."

"Rude is his middle name," Diego said. " _Ah-ah_ —shut your mouth, Draco. Just be quiet until I'm done. We got like, fifteen minutes to go on this."

Draco scowled heavily, covering both eyes with his arm again. He heard the stool cushion shifting as Hermione sat down, and then he felt her fingers curving over the top of his raised knee. She squeezed.

"It looks really beautiful," she said to Diego. "I really like the red and I love the way you added those broken chain links."

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Diego replied. "It really goes well with the chains on his neck."

The two of them engaged in light conversation for the remainder of the time. Then, when Draco thought his muscles might start shaking from the prolonged exposure to the pain of the needles, Diego turned off the machine. The buzzing went silent and Draco felt relief flooding his body like a wave from an ocean of reprieve.

He sat up, feeling Hermione's hand on the back of his left shoulder. She assisted him as he rose, and his head throbbed. He was going to need way more than Dittany after this.

"So, where do you want it?" Diego asked.

The relief dissipated, becoming replaced by dismay.

That was right. He'd forgotten already.

The face tattoo.

"Uh . . ." Draco bit his lower lip for a second. "Right underneath my temple."

"Like on the cheekbone?"

"Yeah."

The buzzing began again. Draco wanted to scream.

As the needles began their familiar pulling and scraping against the soft skin that stretched over his sharp cheekbone, Draco thought he might actually cry. It was too much. It really was. He didn't want to look like _that_ arsehole, so he forced himself to close his eyes and bear it.

Fingernails across his back.

Draco shivered as he felt Hermione's fingernails grazing across his back tattoos. They traced no particular pattern—they seemed to only be there to soothe. And when she started rubbing circles into his upper back, he knew he was going to kiss the fuck out of her when they got out of here.

When the tattoo was finally done, Draco got up off of the chair and went to the mirror on the wall.

"These are fucking ace, mate," he said, turning his cheek toward the mirror to view the small gardenia.

It was a perfect rendition, with neat linework and just the right amount of shading. The tattoo on his chest blended perfectly with the ones on his neck.

He'd already had the snakes that rippled along his collarbones like they were traversing the planes of his upper body, but now surrounded by smoke shading, they looked more complete. The chains wrapped around the roses' petals on his neck seemed to hang down into broken links that rained down around the red-shaded clock face. The clock had no hands, which Draco felt represented the way he felt about his life. That time was irrelevant. It moved so slowly that it was almost nonexistent, and yet he was so afraid of so many things going wrong that it was moving too fast to need hands.

Hermione stood beside him. In their reflection, he could see her ogling him. Her gaze was almost hungry as it took in the sights of not just the new tattoos, but the ones on his arms, abdomen, and the backs of his hands. Finally, she met his eyes.

Hers burned.

Draco turned to Diego and asked him in a low tone if he had any weed. Diego did, selling him enough to replenish what he and Hermione had blown through in such a short time. He tucked it into his pocket for later. Following that, they covered his tattoo with a special lotion and then, for his chest, plastic wrap.

After Draco paid for both of their tattoos—with much protest from Hermione before she relented—they left with Draco's hand wrapped around her waist, tugging her tight against his side. The moment they rounded the corner into the alley between the tattoo parlor and the building beside it, he had her pressed up against the brick wall within seconds.

He slammed his forearm above her head, his lips crashing into hers the moment his flesh hit brick. Hermione threw her arms around his neck and pulled herself onto her toes, her tongue shoving its way into his mouth and exploring its depths as though it were the first time. She whimpered when her freshly-tattooed skin stretched but seemed to push through it as her fingers found their way into the hair at the back of his head.

"You're mine," he growled, his hand wrapping around her throat and his lips brushing her jawline.

"I know," she said, her voice small and faint. Her gaze flickered between his eyes. "Why do you look so scared?"

Draco didn't like that Tomas has touched her, talked to her, or made her laugh. He didn't like it because Tomas didn't know her like he did. He didn't know what she truly found funny. He didn't know how she liked to be touched. He didn't know how long it had taken Draco to convince her to get the tattoo.

Tomas didn't _know_ her.

He didn't know what she sounded like when she cried. He didn't know how much pain she was in every waking moment of every day. He would never know what it felt like to hear her screams, to feel her sobbing in his arms. Tomas would never see her roots, so why should he get to see her petals when she bloomed?

Whether Draco was possessive or protective, it didn't fucking matter.

"Because the thought of anyone—especially a man—touching you without knowing how beautiful you are inside makes me angrier than I thought," he said, his fingers fluttering against her pulse as he cocked his head to the side. "I'm the only one who knows what it takes to make you happy."

"It was _just_ a tattoo," she said, her voice quivering.

He pressed his forehead against hers and took a deep breath.

"And I love you.m," he said.

The space between them stretched as wide as the distance between their stars and then their lips met. They met again and again, soft and gentle, and then hard and bruising. He cupped her face with his hands and pinned her to the wall with his body. Her hands curved over his shoulders like she wanted him to envelop him and keep her safe. They kissed, mindless of the fact that the sidewalk just beyond the mouth of the alley they were currently snogging in was crowded and full.

Draco loved this girl. He genuinely loved her. He wanted to take everything bad that had ever happened to her and burn it. He wanted to take the memories she had of Paris and send them down to Hell so they could never return to plague her. He would do anything for her and if he ever lost her—to a man or to her disorder—he'd do whatever he could to get her back.

He would do absolutely fucking _anything_ for her.

Suddenly, she pushed him back, gasping for breath and ducking her head down for a moment. When she looked up at him, her eyes were strangely guarded.

"Do you want to go wander around the mall?" she asked.

Draco yanked his psyche out of the lustful mud. "Wait, what?"

"Do you want to go to the mall?" She wet her swollen lips with her tongue. "And walk around with me?"

His brows twitched together. "I mean—"

"It's just a little overwhelming," she whispered, and she turned her face away. "That's all."

Draco's heart sunk in his aching chest. "What's overwhelming? Us?"

"No. How badly I want you."

His heart leapt back up and skipped a beat.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know we already slept together and now you're probably going to want to all the time, but I—I—"

He caught her chin and lifted it. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm not Weasley."

She pressed her lips together, her facial expression appearing worried. It almost seemed like she didn't believe him. It was like there was something there—some sort of barrier or hurdle that they hadn't yet crossed.

"Yeah, we can go to the mall, love," he said, his tone gentle as his thumb caressed her cheekbone. Scrutinizing her, he could see that she was somewhat upset. He hated to think it was because of the fact that they'd slept together. He didn't want her to have any regrets. "Come here."

He kissed her again, feeling the way her lips trembled against his. Something much deeper than affection coiled in his chest, concerned and anxious.

Whatever was bothering her, they were going to get to the bottom of it. No more running and hiding. No more bottling things up.

They would figure it out tonight.


	41. Chapter 41

**Trigger warning for graphic** _**crucio** _ **torture. Much deserved.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Thirty-Nine**

They spent the majority of the afternoon at the mall, wandering about and looking at things.

When they stopped back at the hotel room to smoke, they used the Cream of Dittany Draco always had with him to heal their tattoos instantly. Hermione had been surprised to see the ink lighten in color a bit until he explained that when tattoos healed, they faded. She'd said that was a bit disappointing, but he could see it on her face.

She wanted more.

Draco had shopped plenty of times before, but the fact that he was doing it with Hermione felt strange. New. Like he'd never done it before. It was so normal that he could pretend that the war never happened. That Paris never happened and their past had never taken place. They were just two people—a man and a woman—and they were on a romantic trip.

Her fingers were soft and small between his own, enveloped by his larger hand in a way that represented how he felt about keeping her safe. He never stopped touching her in the shops, whether it be to drop a kiss to her cheek or the side of her neck, or to brush his fingers over her new tattoo. She would laugh, and it sounded like she was happy. At one point, he thought he may have seen her smile reach her eyes like a far-off star, glinting in the darkness past thousands of others. Seeing her like that made him miss when they used to walk his dreams together.

He almost wanted to let her back in.

They went inside of one store that had its walls painted black. It played music over the speakers that sounded just like the music they'd listened to at the show before Christmas. All of the clothes were varying shades of black, red, and white, and there were a lot of stripes and studs. Hermione seemed to love it, so Draco followed her around while she fawned over skirts that would make a Pureblood witch faint and shirts that would make him want to take them right back off of her.

"I'm surprised everyone ended up canceling," Hermione said as she sifted through a rack of dresses. "I would have thought maybe they'd just come tomorrow. I mean, a _cold_? Blaise could fix that up in five minutes in the Infirmary."

"That's because it was a lie," Draco drawled, fixing his hair in a mirror that adorned the wall. "Theo didn't want to come with us and be a third or fifth wheel, or whatever, so he probably convinced them not to go."

"But why would he do that? Why would they?"

"When it comes to my friends, things aren't that complicated. Blaise and Pansy probably lied so they could come to London by themselves. Theo already didn't want to go if I was here, so I'm fairly certain he canceled before they ever did."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Oh, this is _cute_." She held up a short-sleeved black dress with pleats in the skirt. "Would this be cute on me?"

"Everything is cute on you." He leaned his elbow on top of a clothing rack, his gaze washing over her. "Why does that make sense?"

She opened her mouth but said nothing. Giving a little laugh, she shook her head and hung the dress back up.

"No, I'm just saying I believe you."

Suspicion clouded Draco's good mood for a moment as he followed her to another display.

"About which part?" he asked.

"That your friends aren't complicated," she said. "I mean, you guys are Slytherins. It makes sense that they would be more straightforward and honest, even if the truth is brutal."

Draco eyed her. "And what's your opinion on Theo?"

"What do you mean?"

He cocked his head to the side, watching as she picked up jewelry packaging and inspected it. "I mean what is your opinion on Theo?"

"He's my friend. Do you like rings?"

Draco knew her by now. He knew her well.

She was deflecting.

"Even if he's your friend, how does it make sense to you that he wouldn't want to be here if I'm here? Our relationship—"

She cut in, her voice insistent. "Draco, do you like _rings_?"

"Yeah, sure. But what I was saying, is that our relationship should have no bearing on Theo's opinion or presence on an outing to London. Don't you think?"

"We're in a relationship?" Hermione looked up at him, hanging a necklace back up.

"I don't know." Draco held her gaze. "Are we?"

"You tell me."

"It's up to you."

"I cannot with you." Hermione let out a mirthless laugh, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "I am not playing this game."

He grabbed her wrist before she could walk away and spun her back around to face him in a fan of braids. A girl shopping the hair accessories nearby gave them a strange look, but neither of them paid it any mind.

"It's not a game, Hermione. None of this has ever been a game, and you know it," he said.

Her eyes searched his. Her facial expression was as calm as her voice when she spoke.

"We're in a relationship. I love you, and Theo's opinion of us has no bearing on the way I feel."

Draco loosened his hold on her wrist. Her hand slipped out of his as she went back to the rings. He watched her searching through the black ones and wondered why she was so nonchalant about this situation, this silent rivalry with Theo. Was it just something he'd imagined?

He believed Hermione's feelings were real. He believed in the things she was saying.

Why did Theo hate him so much?

"So," Hermione said, turning to give him a bright grin. She held up six ring packages, three in each hand positioned like playing cards. They were black and silver. "What do you say?"

He raised one eyebrow, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his denims. "You want me to wear rings?"

"Only if you want to wear them."

He pursed his lips and plucked them from her fingers one-by-one.

"Fine. I will wear the rings because you like them. But don't expect it to become a regular occurrence."

After they purchased the jewelry, the first thing she wanted to do was put them on him. Standing outside in the alley between the edge of the mall and another building, they worked together to take apart the packaging. Once they were on his fingers, she used her wand to size them to fit. He held his hand out before him.

"Well?"

She smiled and there was something secretive about it. Her fingers traced the outline of his rose tattoo, moving up until they were twirling one of the rings around his middle finger. The ghost of her touch sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

Her fingers wrapped around his hand and she looked up at him. She spoke in a whisper, her eyes boring up into his soul.

"I like them."

He turned towards her. "Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Ye—"

He silenced her with his lips, bending down to draw her into a sensual, slow kiss that had her panting. She tightened her hold on his hand while his other came up to cup the side of her neck. He felt her braids against his knuckles as he tilted her head back and kissed down into her with every intention of pulling passion out of her. Because now, he understood why she wanted him to wear the rings.

There were many things he could do to her with them on.

Hermione seemed to gather her wits about her, pushing on her toes to intensify the kiss. It took him aback and his body moved forward, pressing against hers with desire and fervor.

His heart swelled.

They were in an alleyway and here she was, kissing him _again._ With everything she had inside of her. Like she wanted to give herself to him and let him take care of everything.

And he would.

Draco couldn't stop thinking about the hotel room. The fact that they were going to be alone tonight. The fact that he loved her and wanted to kiss her everywhere.

What good fortune it was that the others had cancelled.

Suddenly, right as Draco was starting to lose himself to the fires, there was a quiet _hoot_ above them.

Draco pulled away, hearing Hermione give off a small sound as he did so. They both looked up. It was an owl. A very old, barely living owl with brown feathers and wild eyes.

"That's Errol," Hermione said. "The Weasley family owl. Is it for me?"

Errol winged back and forth like he were sozzled, ignoring Hermione's outstretched hand. Draco's brow furrowed as he and Hermione exchanged confused glances.

_Oh, shite._

"Looks like it's for you. I don't have the energy to ask about it." Hermione rested her head against his chest, her fingers curling tight in his shirt fabric. She sighed. "Just open it."

_Fuck._

_Fuck no._

_Not right_ now _!_

One arm around Hermione, he reached the other up. Errol dropped the letter in his claws directly into Draco's waiting hold. He let go of Hermione and opened the letter. His gaze scanned down to the bottom to see who it was from. His stomach dropped.

Harry.

_D,_

_I tracked you and you're in London right now, right? You're staying at The Savoy?_

_We got him._

_Meet us in the alley behind your hotel when the sun goes down._

_Best,_

_H_

Hermione ripped the letter out of his hands and stepped away from him. The volume of her breathing increased as she tore the parchment into shreds and incinerated the pieces with wandless magic. She stood with her back to him for a long moment, quivering with a violence that told Draco he was fucked.

He didn't know how to rectify this one.

"I just found the energy," Hermione hissed, glaring up at him with rage. "What did you _do_ , Draco?"

Draco lifted his chin and shrugged. He spread his hands wide. "I was protecting you."

Her jaw dropped. Never before had he seen her look so angry. He'd betrayed her in the worst way possible. He'd given the memory of her assault to her best friend and even if he were doing it with good intentions, it was still a betrayal.

Another wrong choice.

"Getting revenge is not protection!" she cried. "Giving my _memories—_ my _nightmares_ to someone I care about is not protection!"

Draco felt the thin metal clasp on his faculties starting to tear loose. He cast a silent _muffliato_ and yelled.

"You weren't going to let Potter _do_ anything! You were just gonna let that fucker in Paris get away with everything he did to you. I couldn't just—just _stand by_ and watch as he got to live his life in peace, never knowing what pain was. And not just physical pain. _True_ pain. The sort Muggles like him deserve to feel."

Hermione's face contorted with revulsion and she scowled. "As if you didn't do it for yourself. For your own sick gratification."

"Don't act like you haven't thought about it either." He took a step toward her, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. "Don't fucking act like you haven't wanted to get the chance to see him bleed."

"Of course that's what I want!" she screamed, tears slipping off of her jaw and splashing onto the concrete beneath her feet. "I've thought about it more times than I can count."

"Then this is your chance, Hermione." Draco rushed toward her, grabbing her elbows. "This is your chance to make him pay for what he did to you."

"It won't fix anything! It won't take the things I felt in that alley, and the things I've hated about myself since, and fix them!" Overcome, her head hung down as she wept. He felt her body pulling down against his hold as her knees went weak. "It won't erase it."

"It's not about fixing or erasing," Draco murmured, his heart pounding. "It's about payment. Payment that he owes you. Payment that is _due_."

Hermione's head fell back. Draco's hands left her elbows and went to her cheeks, fingers hooking behind her ears.

"He _deserves_ to pay."

For a moment, he saw it there in her eyes. The pain that the man would experience at the end of her wand. The glee she would feel as the Cruciatus left her mouth and the magic flowed sinister through her magical core. The relief that his death would bring.

Like a heavy iron door, she slammed her emotions shut and her eyes filled with rage once again.

"Get _away_ from me!" she shrieked, shoving him back a few staggering steps. "This is exactly why I never should have trusted you. I was already angry with you for telling Ron, but this? This is too far. The fact that you . . ."

She trailed off and Draco watched as her emotions and thoughts flickered across her face like flames.

"Oh, Gods." Hermione slammed her hand over her mouth and turned away. "Harry's seen it. Harry's _seen_ the memory." She whirled back around, her eyes glittering with horrified tears. "How could you do this to me?! I never wanted anyone to see me like that! I never wanted—you weren't supposed to— _Oh, my Gods_!"

She sunk into a crouch, her face buried in her hands as she shook and rocked back and forth on her high heels.

"No, no, no. I can't. I can't do this. I don't wanna see him." She fell into inconsolable weeping. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this."

Draco sank to his knees before her, making an attempt to pry her hands away from her tear-streaked face. When he finally managed it and she looked at him, he nearly fell back.

The devastation in her eyes was absolute.

"How could you do this to me?" she sobbed. "How could you put me in this position?"

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but I did what I thought was right."

"You were wrong."

_I always am._

Draco bit his lower lip, thinking about his next words before saying them. He knew what he'd done was wrong. Forgiveness was not something he deserved for doing this, nor was it something she was likely to give. He also knew there was no coming back from it.

If he were going to play with fire, he might as well embrace the burn.

"I'm going to meet with Potter and Ginny when they show up," he said. "I'm going to do this."

"And, what?" she spat, glaring through her tears. "What are you going to do? You can't kill him, Draco!"

"Watch me."

He stood up.

" _No, wait_!" she screeched, scrambling to her feet and clinging to him. "No. Just . . . I'll come with you."

Draco didn't say anything. He merely looked down at her.

"I don't want to do this," she whispered, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her fingers, "but I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

"I won't regret it."

"But you will when the Trace picks up the fact that a former Death Eater's wand has just cast a curse!"

Draco sighed. She was right. He couldn't just cast Unforgivables when the Ministry had a Trace on his wand. Even if he really wanted to.

"We can let Harry handle anything that needs to be handled," she breathed, squeezing his forearm. "But if you're going to be present, then I will, too. It's my life. My body. My pain."

"Okay," he said. His fingers tingled, itching to touch her face, but he refrained.

They looked at one another. The fear in her eyes was enough to rend his heart in two, but not enough to make him fully regret what he'd done. In just a matter of hours, they were going to be in front of the man who had caused her all of this pain.

Draco hoped he got to watch him die.

* * *

There he was.

Kneeling on the ground like a prisoner, arms wrapped in conjured chains with his hands behind his back and a kerchief wrapped around his mouth through his teeth as a gag. His dark hair was swept back from a face covered in bruises. One look at Harry's bandaged hand told Draco where they'd come from. His eyes were resigned, as though the time for terror had passed and he'd finally accepted that this was his fate.

He knew what he'd done wrong.

"He wasn't in Paris anymore," Harry said gruffly from his place beside Ginny. "We found him in Wales, believe it or not."

"With his family," Ginny added, sounding bitter as she hugged her arms against the icy wind that whipped through the space between The Savoy and the building over. "Has a wife and two kids. Isn't that lovely?"

It was cold tonight—much colder than usual—but everyone was bundled up against it. Everyone except the man, who had nothing but his pyjamas on. It was clear that he'd been pulled out of house and home.

Good.

Draco and Hermione had postponed what was sure to be an awkward dinner so they could sit in the hotel room and wait for dark. Hermione had spent the majority of the few hours they were there in the loo, crying. The walls were thin, so he could hear everything. He'd tried to go in but found the door locked.

He didn't try to encroach on her privacy—not when he was the cause of her tears.

So, he'd sat in the armchair beside the bed and stared out at the city through the window. He smoked two blunts but didn't manage to get himself to any sort of place where he could consider himself high. The smoke had curled around his head, until it was all he breathed in, but he still felt like he were sinking to the bottom of an ocean of despair.

But now, they were here. They were here and it was time to face it.

"I know you said not to do this, Hermione," Harry said, looking over her head at Draco. "But we just couldn't let him get away with it. He didn't deserve to."

"He doesn't deserve anything," Ginny said, a sour expression full of hatred on her face. She came to stand beside Hermione, putting an arm around her. "It's up to you what you wanna do."

Hermione looked at them both, first at Ginny and then at Harry. Draco kept his distance.

"If you want to kill him, then I can make it disappear," Harry murmured. "I don't care what we have to do to make it happen—it'll happen."

"Does anyone else—does anyone _know_?" Hermione's voice sounded like hardly more than a whisper from how long she'd cried.

"No," Harry said fiercely. "I promise you that. Not Ron. Not any of the Weasleys. Not even Kingsley. No one knows about this."

"So I could . . ." She trembled in the semi-circle of Ginny's arm. "I could kill him, and no one would ever know?"

The man whimpered, his eyes rolling in his head with fear as he realized what they were saying. He tried to speak and it made Draco sick to his stomach.

He stepped forward, hands in his coat pockets as he took his boot and pressed the sole into the man's chest. The man fell back against the brick, seated on his rump, and stared up at Draco with wild-eyed terror.

Draco lifted his chin and glared down his nose at him.

"Shut . . . Your _fucking_ mouth," he snarled, his voice an insidious hiss. "Or I'll cut out your tongue . . . And feed it to you."

When he stepped back again, turning a dark look toward the others, he saw they were watching him with wary, disturbed expressions. His gaze locked onto Hermione's for a lingering moment, and then he walked to the other wall and leaned back against it.

Harry was the last person to look away from Draco. He bent his head until it was near Hermione's face. "I've already cast the necessary spells—a disillusionment charm and _muffliato_ included. Nothing will ever leave this alleyway."

Hermione looked at him, a deep frown pulling her facial features downward. She stepped forward, away from Ginny and Harry. Then, she took another step. Her hands clasped to her chest, her body shivering from more than the cold. She stood in the center of the alley with the same amount of distance between her and the man stretching between her and her friends.

Draco wanted to go to her side. He didn't want her to have to face this alone again. But he stayed where he was.

Hermione took another step forward. Her foot was an inch away from the man's.

"Look at me."

The man did, lifting his watery eyes to hers. He peered up, appearing to silently plead with her.

Draco sneered. He could plead all he wanted. His time was up.

Hermione spoke again.

"Do you know who I am?"

The man's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. He didn't recognize her.

A vicious, agonizing rage rose up inside of Draco's chest. He had to turn his head away to keep from ripping his wand out of his sleeve and killing the man on the spot.

How could someone who had so utterly destroyed her not even know who she was?

Hermione straightened her shoulders and back. Slowly, she unfolded her elbows and let her hands hang down at her sides. Her chin rose.

"You raped me," she said. "You raped me in an alleyway in Paris in August. I begged you to stop. I tried to offer myself up to you. But you didn't. You just kept raping me. And I know that you're a Muggle and that you've probably done this to so many other girls, but . . ."

Hermione reached into her sleeve with a ginger, careful hand, and withdrew her wand. Her hand was steady as she turned her hips outward in her wand stance. She aimed.

"This time, you chose the wrong girl."

Draco pushed away from the wall. Her voice was so soft, so quiet. So calm. He could feel it in the air, the darkness gathering and pulling inward. She was going to—

" _Crucio_."

The man's screams rent the night air, echoing up the side of The Savoy like a wolf as he howled to the moon. His back bowed and he keeled over, writhing and twisting as agony only a witch could cause wracked his Muggle body with pain. His screams became sobbing, anguished wails. He wet himself, his entire body spasming as the curse ripped through his veins and burned them.

It was glorious.

 _She_ was glorious, with her face as tranquil and sure as it was, but it wasn't right.

It wasn't _her._

Something inside of Draco told him to go to her. To walk towards her, one foot in front of the other, and be by her side. He did so, ignoring the fact that Harry and Ginny were watching him do so with cold, emotionless expressions.

Draco reached out to grab her wrist.

The spell stopped.

Startled, Hermione looked up at him in a daze. Her voice was wistful, distant as she said, "What's wrong? Isn't this what you wanted?"

A spear, right through his heart.

"Hermione," he murmured, voice gentle with emotion, "I want you to do what _you_ want."

Hermione's lower lip trembled and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her voice was a whine. "I want him to be dead."

"But you don't want to kill him." Draco used his other hand to tug the wand out of her hand. "So, let me take care of it. Okay?"

On the ground, the Muggle was still trembling, sniveling like the vermin he was. To their right, Harry and Ginny stood silent and watching. Ginny's expression was stoic, but there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Hermione looked away from Draco and down at the man.

"Okay."

Draco took her wand and pointed it at the Muggle. In his mind, he saw the Astronomy Tower and the cloudy night sky. The Headmaster standing in front of him as his hand shook and quivered. Dumbledore had known he couldn't do it. He'd known he was too scared.

But that was then.

This was now.

" _Crucio_ ," Draco whispered, and he meant it.

The Muggle started to scream again, his eyes widening as the spell slammed through his body. Draco knew his was stronger than Hermione's had been. She may have hated the Muggle, but Draco was different. He'd cast the Cruciatus before, at the Dark Lord's request. He knew what it felt like to have that darkness channeled through his body. He knew what it felt like to _really_ mean it.

He could kill him this way, if he wanted to.

"Stop!" Hermione suddenly cried. "Draco, stop!"

Draco blinked, feeling her hand on his arm, jostling him. The magic tore back into his magical core as he turned the wand upward.

"What? What's wrong?"

" _Obliviate_ him."

Draco's brows pulled together. "What?"

"Yes. Erase his memory. _Obliviate_ him."

"Hermione, are you sure?" Harry moved toward them, but Hermione held up a hand to stop him.

"I want you to erase his memory of me and of every girl he's ever raped," she said, her voice firm. "And when you do, I want you to make him believe."

"Make him believe what?" Ginny asked, sniffling.

"Whatever I want," Hermione said, looking at her. She turned to look up at Draco, beseeching him with glittering eyes. Her voice lowered. " _Whatever I want."_

Draco nodded.

"If you do this, he can't be convicted," Harry said. "He'll have no memory for us to go through to prove what happened. And if you won't give the Wizengamot the memory—"

"I don't want him convicted," Hermione said. "I want him punished. Draco. Now, please."

Draco had no clue what she had planned, but he knew he had to trust her on it. This was her pain. Her life. Her body. If this was what she wanted him to do, he would do it.

" _Obliviate,"_ he said.

As Draco's magic sunk into the forefront of the man's mind, he heard Hermione start to cry.

"You're a man with a wife and two children," she said. "And you live in Wales with them. You go to work and you come home to your family and you love them. You make them happy. You make good choices."

Draco moved the man's memories around.

"You've done bad things. You've done _really_ bad things." Her voice broke as she spoke through clenched teeth. "You've done them with intent, without care, and with absolutely no remorse. You've hurt other people with the full intention of causing them pain."

Draco intensified his magic, feeling a bit of resistance from the reprehensible piece of rubbish that was lying at his feet. The Muggle's face had taken on a slack-jawed, dreamy-eyed disposition. He had no idea what was going on, and he never would.

"And you feel horribly, terribly guilty for all the wrong you've done," Hermione said. "You're going to spend the rest of your life making up for it by being a good person. A true person, who doesn't hurt or use or manipulate people for your own gain. You're going to choose to make the right choices, even if it causes you pain. _Especially_ if it causes you pain. You're going to stretch yourself thin until there's nothing left of you, until everyone around you is happy."

Her words were the only thing that held Draco steady as he was forced to watch flashes of the memories of several other girls that the man had hurt the same way. Her voice held him grounded. Her hand on his arm kept him above water.

If it weren't for her, he might have thrown up.

"You know you're a bad person. It eats you up and it never spits you out. You hate yourself so much that you'll do anything and everything you can to make sure that everyone you loves gets what they want from you, regardless of how exhausted it makes you. Regardless of how unhappy you are. Regardless of your own desires, you will do, and do, and do for everyone else but you."

She squeezed Draco's arm, but never stopped speaking.

"Even though you're getting a second chance from me, you're never going to be happy. For the rest of your life, you will walk the path of immeasurable, painful guilt without ever knowing why."

Draco's eyes found her.

"You sure you want me to erase it?" he asked.

She looked directly up at him with a fire burning there that he hadn't seen since the day she punched him on the hill at the end of Third Year.

"Erase it."

Draco erased all traces of Hermione, the other women, and every other bad thing the Muggle had done to them from his mind.

But he left the guilt.

When he was done and his magic receded back inside of him, Draco let out a heavy breath. It was a tough spell, but not too tough. He knew Hermione could have done it, given what she'd done with her parents, but he was glad she'd asked him. In a way, it had felt cathartic for him to watch everything disappear and to know that he had control over whether or not this man remembered anything at all.

Draco stood there as Hermione was swarmed by Harry and Ginny, who held her in a group embrace. He watched as she fell into tears again, all three of them weeping as the emotional moment overtook them. Draco himself felt his throat aching, but he remained as still as a sentinel.

"Are you sure this was what you wanted to do?" Harry asked, cupping Hermione's face in his hands. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "I'm sure."

"Oh, Hermione," Ginny said, throwing her arms around Hermione's neck. "You were so strong. You really were."

"Thank you, Ginny, and . . ." Hermione looked at her. "You should know that you _are_ my best friend. Thank you for being here and for caring."

They all embraced again, continuing to converse in low tones. Everyone seemed relieved and Hermione verbally forgave both Harry and Ginny for watching the memory and finding the Muggle against her wishes. The general consensus was that Hermione had made the right decision and that now, she could finally start to heal.

Why couldn't Draco relax?

"What now?" Hermione asked.

"We're taking him back to where we found him," Harry said. "Like I said, it doesn't leave here. No one will know."

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione said with an air of finality that felt riddled with holes that only Draco could see. "Close the case."

She walked towards Draco. "I'm going to go wait for you in the lobby."

Draco watched her go, then turned back to Harry and Ginny. Harry was in the process of preparing the Muggle for Apparition. Ginny frowned at Draco.

"Harry means well, but he's so overprotective. He's lost so many people that he doesn't know when too far is too far when it comes to protecting them." She spoke in a voice that Harry couldn't hear. "Are we sure she was ready for that?"

Draco knew exactly what that felt like. Once again, he was finding out that he and Harry had more in common than he'd once thought.

"She's not ready for any of this. Or anything." _She needs help._

Ginny pressed her lips together in a sad semblance of a smile. "I thought so. Take care of her."

Draco's response was to raise an eyebrow and follow in the direction his witch had gone.

* * *

Hermione's eyes were guarded as she watched Draco enter the hotel lobby.

There was a heavy air about both of them, pervading Draco's painted-on disguise. He could feel the experience weighing him down, slowly peeling away the layers of his false strength. He felt drained.

How could Hermione be so calm right now?

"Should we do room service for supper?" she asked, pressing the Up button on the elevator doors.

He shrugged. "Sure. As long as you eat."

It was a moment before she answered.

"I will."

_Ding._

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. The people on it smiled at them and stepped out, and then they were alone. Draco pressed the buttons visible only to magical individuals so they could get back to their floor. The elevator began to ascend.

He had known that Harry was going to contact him eventually, he just hadn't thought it would be so soon. Definitely not while he was in London with Hermione. He hadn't wanted her to know. His plan had been to sneak off, do away with the Muggle, and then never speak of it ever again.

Harry had certainly been shocked to see Hermione, given the wide-eyed look he'd sent Draco's way when the two of them came walking around the corner of The Savoy. It seemed that he had only been tracking Draco—not his curly-haired friend.

Draco knew Hermione was still angry with him. She'd thrown herself into the task with gusto, facing down her demons and destroying them in a way she thought was fit, but he wasn't sure what she wanted to do from here. Did she want to leave him?

Panic bloomed in his chest like gardenias in the Summer.

A life where they weren't together was not a life that he existed within.

Draco looked down at her, watching the way she stared blankly at the elevator doors, and he knew she'd achieved some form of closure. He wasn't sure if it was the closure that was the problem, or the fact that she wasn't ready to accept closure yet.

There was another thing he couldn't figure out.

"Why?" he asked.

She lifted her gaze from the floor. "Why what?"

"Why erase his memories? Why not just kill him?"

There was something electric that charged across the tense silence between them, like their hearts reaching for one another. Draco felt like he was reaching for hers, handing his to her, but she was too frightened to give hers to him.

"Because," she said in a muted tone, "I want him to suffer the way I will."

Draco remembered. He remembered saying those words because they'd been the most honest words he'd ever shared with her. He'd wanted his father to suffer the same way he knew that he would because it wasn't fair that Draco should have to burn in fires that Lucius had set. At least, not alone.

Hermione knew that she needed to heal. But as long as she was burning, she wanted the Muggle to burn, too.

He dropped his hand to his side, his hand brushing hers. She jolted but didn't move away. Taking it as permission, he threaded his fingers through hers. She glanced up at him and he trapped her gaze with his own.

"You won't suffer forever," he said. "I promise."

_Ding._

The elevator doors opened, and her hand drifted out of his own. He followed her down the hall, hoping that she hadn't hit rock bottom yet.

Hoping that they would only go up from here.

"Would you like to shower?" she asked later when they were done eating room service.

"Before you? Nah, that's okay—you can go first."

The light of the bedside lamp flooded the room, illuminating the nice furniture and her unreadable facial expression.

"I meant with me."

For anyone else, a shower together would be nothing out of the ordinary. For them, it was everything.

They were awake.

"Do you want me to shower with you?" he asked.

_After the way I betrayed her?_

"I do," she said, and then she walked into the loo.

Draco stood there for a few minutes, debating. She'd been so angry before they went to meet Harry, and now she wanted him to see her in her most vulnerable state? The only time he'd ever seen her completely nude was in her dream, in Paris, in _pain_.

Was she ready for this?

The light in the bathroom turned on. She'd left the door open, so it shone out into the miniature hallway. Draco heard the water turning on.

He pulled his shirt off and headed for the bathroom.

Steam was already starting to rise, floating up to greet the glass of the mirror. It fogged it like flames licking up the wall of a burning house. Draco looked at the closed curtain, his pulse pounding as he unbuckled his belt. It dropped to the floor with a _clink_.

This was another milestone. It was a _big_ milestone.

He turned and glanced at himself in what was left of the clear parts of the mirror. Glanced at the tattoos that littered every inch of his upper body and wondered if the fact that they were there meant he wasn't as vulnerable in this moment as she was. It felt unfair—his scars were obscured.

What about hers?

"Are you coming?" she asked softly, poking her head out around the curtain. Her braids ran down her back and swung by her elbows. Dark makeup ran down her face from beneath her eyes, making her appear almost like she were on some sort of hard drugs, or like she'd been drinking for hours. "The water's warm."

"Yeah," he said, voice somewhat scratchy as he unbuttoned his trousers. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, watching him remove them before looking up at him as he walked closer. They held each other's gazes as he removed his pants. He stood before her, as naked as he could be, and took a deep breath.

"Ready?" he asked, brushing his fingers back through his hair.

"Yes."

She skulked backward, pulling the curtain aside with her. The shower was a moderate size, so there was plenty of room for his tall form to crowd into it. He felt the hot water cascading over his skin, down his chest and back, droplets soaking his hair. He pushed it all the way back.

Hermione stood with her arms wrapped around her body—one across her chest and the other across her stomach. She couldn't seem to make eye contact with him, the droplets clinging to her lashes seeming to fling every which way as she looked to the left, right, up, and down.

He could see that she was terrified, but he was so, _so_ fucking proud of her.

"Come here," he said softly, his fingers fluttering along her waist as he folded her in his arms. "It's okay."

She trembled as though she were standing in the center of a barren, frozen wasteland. The Arctic surrounding her, swallowing her in snow as she existed beneath the starlight. Frost decorating the planes of her body like it wanted to turn her into a sad sculpture with forlorn eyes and a downturned mouth.

He pulled her chin up with the side of his knuckle. Her body shook harder and she immediately put her head down again.

_One._

"Come on. You can do this for me. Look into my eyes."

He pulled her chin up a second time. Her gaze darted up, and then her head turned down again.

_Two._

"It's you and me, Hermione. Just you and me. No one else here."

A third. This time, her gaze trained itself upward.

_Three._

After a moment, her face screwed up like she was going to lose control. She turned her face away, squeezing her eyes shut. The shower water running down her face in desolate rivulets made it look like she were crying. They crossed and split apart, creating Eiffel Towers on her cheeks.

His fingers found her jaw once more.

_Four._

"Just you . . ." His hand curled around her chin to hold it there, even as she continued to quiver. ". . . And me."

She was trying to pull away—trying to turn her entire body as the intensity of his stare became too much. But the time for hiding had come and gone. That was the past—their past, even if things had moved as fast as they had for them. What they had now was their future. Their healing. The mending of their trust.

His fingers slid along her jaw and pulled her face back towards him. She fought against it, but he was stronger than her. He forced her to look up at him. She closed her eyes.

"Open them."

Her lower lip quivered.

"Hermione, open your eyes for me. _Please."_

Two agonizing seconds crawled by. She opened her eyes.

_Five._

"I won't let you look away," he whispered, his eyes searching hers, even as her quivering body leaned into his. "Even if you don't want me to look at you."

They spent the rest of the shower like that, barely moving. Just looking into each other's eyes. There were several times where it became so overwhelming that Draco himself wanted to look away, but he didn't. He refused. He would look at her until eternity came for him, and then longer.

He would look at her until the stars burned out.

And she looked right back at him. He could see it there—the determination as she fought against her own fears and insecurities. As she fought the trauma and the pain and the self-hatred and _looked_ at him. Her brow furrowed several times, as though it were taking an immense amount of concentration, and he loved her all the more for it.

Draco wanted her to know that no matter what, he wasn't going to give up on her. As long as she tried.

As long as she fought.

Finally, when the water started to lose its heat, they stepped away from one another and began to actually shower. They moved in silence, alternating between tasks. When she washed her scalp between braids, he washed his body with soap and a cloth. When he ran conditioner to the ends of his hair, she was running a razor over her legs.

Draco finished first.

He dried off with his wand and then went out into the main room. Slipping his legs into a pair of grey trackies, a black tee shirt, and a black hoodie, he prepared for bed. He pulled the hood up over his head and sat down in the armchair with his weed and rolling paper. While he smoked the joint, he stared at himself in the vanity mirror across the room and lost himself to thought.

The sounds of the water ceased.

Draco brought the joint to his lips and took a deep drag, holding the smoke in for as long as his lungs could handle. It burned, aching in a delicious way as he coughed. He exhaled, watching the thick smoke curl out and leave behind an excellent, buzzing high. It tingled through his veins.

The bathroom door opened and Hermione stepped out.

Completely nude.

Draco, whose head was resting back on the top of the chair, looked down through his lashes at her. She stood there, her braids and skin dry, but her face was still streaked with make-up. Her hands were in tight fists at her sides, and she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It was clear to him that she was nervous.

But she looked gorgeous, the way the light from the lamp cast gold over the brown of her skin. The way it illuminated every part of her that she'd hid thus far, and every part that he'd seen.

He lifted his head, the joint feeling like an afterthought between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand.

"This is me," Hermione said on a short breath. In measured steps, she lifted her gaze from the floor to meet his across the room. "This is my body. I don't like it. I don't like anything about it. But when you . . ." She closed her eyes and took a second, then opened them with another determined look. "When you look at me—when you fight for me the way you do, I feel like I can see myself loving it one day."

Draco sat up and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. He looked at the floor and then up at her. "I can't be the one to make you love yourself."

"No, you can't." She took a step closer, her hands starting to rise to cover herself. They stopped and went back to her bare sides. "And you won't be the one to do it. But you've helped me see the path to being able to do it myself."

"Then what—" He brought the joint back to his lips and sucked in the smoke. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Hermione watched the smoke curl up towards the ceiling upon his exhale, and then looked down at him again. He saw her trembling.

"This is what's left of me, Draco."

She walked closer, until she was right in front of the chair. Their knees brushed.

"It's what's left of me."

Her hand found his chin and pulled it up. He looked at her while he took another drag and blew the smoke out to the side.

"It's what I can give you."

Draco remained motionless as Hermione leaned down to press a kiss against his lips. It was soft. Tender, the way her lips moved against his and her fingers held his face. She kissed him like she were sealing a declaration. Then, she pulled back.

"It's what I want to give you. If you want it, it's yours."

Before he could process what she was telling him, she placed her hands on the arms of the chair. He sat back as she leaned forward, still looking into her eyes. Her left knee slid between his hip and the side of the seat. Then, her right.

She settled atop his lap.

Without saying anything, she took the joint from him and put it between her lips. Her chest expanded as she inhaled. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she took in the smoke and blew it out above them. As her head tilted back, her braids falling down to her lower back, Draco's gaze ran down the length of her upper body. Her waist, her collarbones, the line of her neck. The bare breasts he'd tasted and kissed and touched. The curls he'd run his fingers through to get to her cunt many times before.

Stomach coiling like a metal spring, he fought back a groan. His elbow moved to the arm of the chair, and he rubbed his jaw with his fingers.

Draco felt conflicted. It was like they were in limbo, floating in the darkness, reaching for one another. Sometimes, it felt like their fingers were brushing. Sometimes it even felt like they were holding hands. But then, just as soon as he felt it, it was like she was gone again, floating off into shadows.

He could feel their problems and the anger and the mistrust, but it was like it was behind a barrier. A parchment-thin yet indestructible barrier that had locks on both sides. And they held each other's keys.

To feel close to her would be a dream.

Hermione passed the joint back to him, an almost-satisfied smile on her face as her bloodshot eyes studied his hand. She lifted it in both of hers, her fingers playing with his rings. She twisted them around his fingers in turn, successive motions from left to right.

He gave her a lazy smirk around the smoke. "What're you doing?"

She didn't speak, instead choosing to pull his hand closer. His fingertips brushed her sternum.

Draco twisted his hand and wrapped it around one of her wrists. They both breathed laughs as he pulled and she fell forward against him. Their lips brushed and he felt her free hand sliding into his hair beneath the hood. He tried to press his lips against hers, but she kept pulling her head back in minute distances. Not too far, but just enough to keep him chasing her.

The spring in his abdomen coiled tight enough to steal his breath.

Their lips brushed again. They both smiled and he wrinkled his nose, tightening his hold on her wrist until he felt her fingers curling into a fist.

"You're making me angry," Draco murmured, his voice completely hoarse from smoking.

"How so?" she asked, her breath hot against his lips.

"You're annoying me."

Hermione hummed and sat back. "You should probably punish me for it."

When her fingers twirled the ring on his middle finger again, he realized that it tickled, and that was why he was so on edge. In two fluid movements, Draco let go of her wrist, batted her hand away, and wrapped his hand around her throat. She sucked in her breath and looked down at him with a mischievous, close-lipped smile playing about her full lips. She stole the joint from him and held it.

Draco didn't smile, his expression serious as he trailed his now-free fingers down the center of her chest. Her breathing hitched. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers. He squeezed the sides of her neck until he heard her breath rattle.

"I thought your body was yours," he murmured, his eyes drinking in the sight of her breasts heaving with the exertion of trying to get in a full breath.

"My body doesn't belong to anyone," she choked out, her head falling back as his fingers twirled one nipple and then the second. Her hips jerked, and he felt himself growing hard beneath the softness of her body. "But you can have it for a little while."

"Yeah?" He smirked, his eyes half-shut and voice rough.

"Mmhm," she said with a slight moan. Her brows pulled together as she ground her hips against his once in a slow, hard circle. Smoke twisted into the air from the still-lit joint in her fingers. Her lips parted. "You can have me."

_Fuck._

Using his hold on her throat, Draco pulled her forward until her back arched and her braids fell around them like a curtain. Her face turned and he heard her struggling to breathe in his ear. He covered her breast with his whole hand, massaging it with just the right amount of pressure.

"Tell me first," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the spot below her ear so he could feel her shiver. "I need to hear you say it."

"If I could give my body to anyone," she said, her empty hand running up to cover his fingers around her throat and then down his forearm to grip his sleeve, "it would be you."

Draco let go of her throat, looking up at her face as he took the joint from her. She gasped for a relieved yet dismayed breath of air, her hands pressed flat to his chest. As he brought the joint to his lips again, his other hand slid over the curve of her rear, down the back of her thigh, and towards her core.

He felt her cunt, hot and wet as his fingertips circled it, and he sucked in more smoke than he probably needed. Her hips moved backward, jolting when the tip of his finger slipped inside and then pulled back out.

"Do you deserve it?" he murmured, the smoke filling her face as she breathed it in. His fingers slipped inside again, this time deeper, and then ran down to find her clit. He swirled it, as gentle as possible.

"I don't deserve it," she said with a loud gasp, her eyes rolling up into her head.

Draco's stomach clenched again. His fingers searched outside of her core, feeling how wet she was for him. Hermione leaned forward, arching her lower body even more. Her forehead rested against his shoulder as she stifled her whimper. He looked down the length of her bare back, the joint resting between his fore and middle fingers again, and he realized.

No one else had seen these parts of her. No one else had had her like this, and no one else ever would.

She was his.

"What _do_ you deserve?" he asked.

"I don't know," Hermione groaned, her face buried in his neck. She rolled her hips, trying to get his finger to slide inside of her.

He obliged, feeling smoke sliding past his lips as he sunk two fingers deep into her body from behind. He moaned when he felt her pulling him deeper. Two seconds passed, and then he couldn't take it anymore. He handed her the almost finished joint, which she took in a bit of a daze, and then his hand was around her throat again, ensuring she kept her cheek pressed against his.

His fingers began to pound into her, the rings slipping inside and out. Shudders rippled through her body as she moved backwards to meet them.

"Tell me what you deserve," he said. Ordered it like he had the right. "Come on. You can do it. Tell me."

"I d-deserve . . ." She whimpered again. "You."

"Tell me who you belong to." He squeezed her throat tighter and moved his fingers harder, curling them.

" _Oh, my_ —" Her voice was a whine now. "You. I belong to y-you. Draco, Draco, it's—"

"Tell me you're mine. Fuck my fingers and tell me you're mine."

He let go of her throat. She placed one hand on his shoulder as he pulled his fingers out of her, slipped them between their bodies, and slid them back inside of her from the front. He curved his thumb so her clit would rub against his knuckle, and then he watched her. Watched her hips roll, watched the black and silver rings disappearing into her body and reappearing again.

It was so fucking hot.

"I'm yours," she gasped, voice jolting with each thrust of her hips. She looked down and watched his hand moving, searching, devouring. "I'm always gonna be yours."

"Yeah," he said. "You are. Now, beg me."

The words were instant, shooting like stars out of her mouth.

"Please, let me—let me come on you," she begged, looking down into his eyes through her lashes. "Let me— _God, fuck—_ let me come."

Draco used his other hand, massaging her clit gently while he slammed his other fingers brutally inside of her body. Every part of her seemed to vibrate and the concentration on her face broke apart like waves upon the sand. She came with a loud moan, her head falling back as she shook and trembled above him in her euphoria.

Draco stood up, causing her to have to stand quickly to keep him from carrying her. She didn't drop the joint even as he grabbed her face and pulled her up into a wild, passionate kiss that came straight from the depths of his soul.

"Do you want me," he asked through kisses and brushes of his tongue against hers, "to fuck you the way you deserve?"

"Yeah," she breathed, her head falling to the side as he kissed his way down to her pulse. His tongue tasted it, and she let out a cry.

"It might hurt."

Their eyes met.

"Good," she said.

His clothes were off within moments, his jumper across the room and his trackies on the floor beside them. She was the one to tug the black shirt off, and then they were both nude. Completely vulnerable.

Draco pinned her down horizontally across the bed, his rings pressing marks into her throat and his other hand curved beneath her knee to pull it up by his waist.

"It's just you and me," he whispered as the head of his cock found her entrance and split her wide. "Look at me. Just you and me."

She nodded, her expression slowly twisting as he slid inside of her body. Their gazes remained connected as he began to thrust. Her expression continued to twist until suddenly, tears began to slip out of the outer corners of her eyes. She let out a sob and he nearly pulled out.

"Keep going," she said, wrapping the fingers of her free hand around the back of his neck. "It's for you. Because I love you."

Her words sent a wave of sudden need through him. He kissed her tears, tasting them, his hips slamming against hers with loud sounds that echoed throughout the room. The sounds warred with the moans leaving her lips as he fucked her so hard he saw novae bursting in front of his eyes.

Gods, did he love her moans.

He stood up, grabbing her hips and dragging her down onto his cock so he could watch himself dive in and come back out. It felt good, bolts of electricity running down his spine and the backs of his thighs, right to his center.

Taking the joint from her, he took the second-to-last drag, the eroticism of smoking while fucking her making him groan.

"You're such a good girl," he growled, fingers digging into her flesh as he gazed down at her. Watched her lips curl up into a blissful smile. "You feel so good on my cock. Fucking— _ah, fuck_. Say it."

"I'm so good for you," she whispered, the tears melting to disappear into her braids. "I'm such a good girl for you."

He went harder, and her back arched up off of the bed. The groan that left her lips came from deep within her chest, tearing out of her throat as though he'd expelled it from her body. The walls of her cunt gripped him like a velvet vice and he felt himself hurdling closer to the edge of space and time.

Draco pitched forward, his hand smacking down on the coverlet beside her head. She snatched the joint away from him, sucking in the last drag while his other hand found her pearl and began to play with it the way that she liked.

"I'm gonna make you come now," he murmured, his gaze flickering up and down her face. "Aren't I?"

She nodded, chest still full of smoke. Her body twitched with every stroke of his fingers against the spot.

"Put your feet on the mattress and spread your legs," he whispered, kissing her jaw and neck.

As she did what he told her to do, she exhaled all of the smoke from her lungs. When she did, Draco began to thrust again, hard. It pushed the smoke out faster as she threw her head back in a deep, screaming moan.

" _Oh . . . My . . . God."_ She sounded desperate. Her hips writhed, her hand wrapping around his wrist as though she didn't know if she wanted to pull it away from her clit or not. "Draco. Draco, please. Please, please, please. I'm gonna— _fuck_. Please tell me—Tell me I'm—"

"What, do you want me to say sweet? Huh? You want me to tell tell you how fucking sweet you are?" His tongue curved around her ear and her entire body jerked. Her legs shook so violently that he knew she wouldn't be able to walk if she were upright. "What do you want?"

"I'm sweet," she gasped. "I'm so sweet. I'm—"

He cut her off, feeling her body starting to go rigid. Her breaths stuttered. When she looked at him, it was almost like she were shocked he could make her feel this way. His stomach clenched tight, so tight he couldn't breathe.

"Come for me, sweet girl," he practically cooed, his lips soft beneath her jaw. " _Fuck_ —Come for me now. Come on. You can do it."

When she finally did, the walls of her core gripped him so tightly that his own orgasm slammed through him like a lightning bolt. He pulled out of her, painting her abdomen with his come as he followed her over the edge of the stars and into the expanse between, where they soared together. Draco bit his lower lip and moaned, his hips undulating as he thrust into his hand.

As he gazed down at her, watched her slowly coming down from the skies, he realized once again that he would rather die than ever see her in pain again. Something horrible had brought them together, and something horrible was trying to tear them apart.

He wasn't gonna let it.

Hermione purred as she stretched her arms above her head and watched him from below.

"Want to watch the telly?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, "though I can't say I ever have."

"All the hotels you've stayed in, and you've never watched it?" She walked over to her wand and used it to clean them both up.

"I never thought to turn it on."

Draco listened to the sound of her rare laughter as she walked naked to the television and turned it on. He climbed under the coverlet, smiling to himself when she turned, leapt onto the bed on her hands and knees, and crawled up to him. Underneath the blankets, she wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed her head into his chest.

"Hermione," he said. "are you still angry—"

"Shh," she said, face focused on the screen. "I don't wanna talk about it. I don't wanna talk about any of it. I just want to be with you."

Draco agreed, and then they fell into a silence so uncomfortable for him that he was awake for hours after she dozed off. Her lack of desire to talk about the memory meant that she _was_ angry and that she was going to internalize it. If she internalized it, that meant she was going to engage in behaviors. And while he knew she was by no means cured, he hadn't quite figured out the right way to go about things. Too cruel, too nice . . . It was like they were balancing on the edge of a cliff with death at the bottom.

He couldn't shake the feeling that everything was going to fall apart.


	42. Chapter 42

**Trigger warning: there is medical misinformation in this chapter.**

**I also included something that happened to me. I saw 5 doctors over the course of 2 years when I decided I wanted help for my ED. 5 of them told me "Black people don't get eating disorders," "you're overweight, so you don't have a disorder," and "you look fine, so it's not an issue right now."**

**I told doctor number 6, "If you don't put me into treatment, I'll purge until I die." She saved my life.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Forty**

Time passed, Winter fading into Spring with frost melting into dewdrops on the leaves.

A routine was achieved by both Draco and Hermione that involved the most hands-on approach to her recovery that Draco could think of. He spent every waking moment he could with her, finding that if they acted like it was still the final week of Winter break, they could ignore the problems. When they weren't in class, they lounged about in his bed, reading, smoking, and snogging. When it _was_ time to go to class, Draco walked her to and from. At mealtimes, she ate without protest, much like she had in London.

When March 15th dawned, Hermione woke with a start. The light outside was still a dark cobalt, signifying that the sun hadn't yet peeked over the horizon, but night had passed.

Draco woke to the feeling of her hand shaking him with a violence. He was on his stomach, arms hugging his pillow, but he rolled onto his side immediately.

"What? What?!" he cried, his heart racing.

"I don't feel good," she said, her voice small and eyes wide. Her kinky curls had come out of her bonnet while she was asleep, causing them to be bunched up in several places.

Draco yawned and sat up, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. "What's the matter?"

"My chest feels cold," she said, and her voice shook. "It feels—it feels cold, and my arms feel like they're shaking. I don't know. I don't know how to explain it. It was like—like I was fine and everything was working okay, and then it felt like something dropped."

Alarmed, the last vestiges of his slumber shattered and he turned his upper body toward her. One hand went to her back and the other to her chin, lifting it so he could inspect her face. He knew her face had nothing to do with any of it, but he didn't know what to do beside check her over.

"Does anything hurt? Are you breathing okay?"

"I feel like I can breathe fine. But my heart like . . ." She lowered her gaze as though she were ashamed to tell him. "It fluttered. It didn't hurt, but it felt weird. And now it feels like my arms are—they're tingling? I don't know. Draco, I don't know. I don't—"

"Shh, shh," he whispered, curving one arm around her shoulder and the other sliding into the depths of her curls to press her head against his chest. "You're shaking."

"It doesn't feel right. I don't feel right."

"Well, then we'll go to Madam Pomfrey," he said.

She said nothing, but she didn't have to. Draco knew Madam Pomfrey would weigh her again. It had been over a month since she'd finished taking her prescribed potions. Thanks to Draco's intervention, it was clear to him that Hermione had gained weight. He wasn't sure if she was at a place where she was healthy, but it was good enough for him.

Hermione was trying. That's what mattered.

"Come on," he said, letting go of her. "I'll even go in with you this time."

She perked up. "You will?"

"Yeah," he said with a lopsided grin before he placed his feet on the floor. "Let's get dressed and get down there. Then we can catch breakfast."

After dressing in their uniforms, Draco and Hermione worked together with two pick combs, water, and a hair potion to get the knots out of her natural hair.

By the time it was fluffy and defying gravity just the way it was meant to, Draco's arms were tired. He leaned against the wall, watching with interest as she pulled her hair back into two braids in a row on either side of her head. She had synthetic hair that looked fairly real out on the counter that she'd retrieved from her room and she was feeding the hair into each braid as she went. With the extra hair, she was able to make the braids reach thin to her hips.

"I love your hair," he said quietly, watching her fingers moving faster than he could ever duel with his wand. He could hear her nails clicking together as she worked.

Her expression was disbelieving, her lips pursed. "Mm-hm."

"No, I'm serious."

"You always hated it," she said. "Don't try to act like you didn't."

"No," he murmured, resting the side of his head against the doorframe. "I just didn't understand it. I understand you now."

She raised one eyebrow. "Because my race is something you need to understand for it to become acceptable?"

"Of course not," he said, moving closer. He slid his arms around her from behind, bending down to rest his chin on her shoulder. "I've come to realize that me being cruel to you was a result of me being afraid of something I didn't understand. My parents let me believe that Muggle-borns were something different. I made fun of your hair because it was something I saw that could be targeted, even though I knew there was nothing inherently wrong with you. And it was wrong. I get that now."

"I struggle to see where you deserve the medal." She continued to braid her second braid, but the corners of her lips were twitching upward in the faintest of smiles. "O tall, white King."

Draco burst out laughing and pressed a series of playful kisses to her cheek before his chin returned to her shoulder.

"I don't deserve a medal," he said. "I don't want one. I have the only thing I want. But what I need is to put the work in—to earn your forgiveness for that part of our past. Your hair is amazing, exactly the way it is."

"But I don't need your permission for it to be amazing."

"No. But I think it's stunning anyway. There's a lot of things about you that I find stunning. But I won't deny that I'm ashamed of the way I treated you. It feels unforgivable, in a lot of ways."

He grew lost in thought, in guilt that ran deeper than his mother's death and his poor choices. In the type of guilt that fear exacerbated.

What if she died, and he never got to finish proving himself to her?

"It's something you have to work to unlearn," she said after a moment, resting the back of her head against the front of his shoulder. Her hands moved to cover his as she looked at his reflection through her lashes. Her eyebrows lifted upward as she spoke. "You can't be my Pureblood saviour or my Pureblood knight. But you can unlearn the things you were taught."

Draco watched her as she spoke, watched the strength seem to weave its way through her words without her needing to be overt about it, and he realized something about her. Something that smashed into him like a blow directly to the heart. Something that showed him that no matter what she'd been through—the trauma, the pain, the suffering—she was someone who could always say that she'd survived.

Yes, she wasn't well. Yes, she needed help. But the incident in Paris hadn't destroyed her. It had taken the pieces of her heart that she'd already cherished and showed her how important it was to keep them intact. Her disorder was a result of her trying to get them back because she didn't understand that they had never been taken away from her. But he was looking at her now, listening to her words, watching the proud way she lifted her chin while she looked at him in the mirror, and he could see those pieces shining like diamonds in her eyes.

Hermione wasn't a victim. She'd never been a victim.

She was victorious.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his eyes locked onto hers. "You're everything."

When she smiled, for the briefest moment, it reached her eyes.

xxx

Draco threaded his fingers through Hermione's own on the way to Madam Pomfrey's, and he didn't let go until Hermione was seated on an Infirmary bed. Her palm was slick with sweat and she looked paler than usual. The way the sweat beaded on her forehead beneath her curly fringe concerned him.

What if his intervening hadn't helped? What if she'd been doing this good for a month because she was trying to play pretend? As sick as she was, it just wasn't plausible that she could be doing better this quickly. Even if she _was_ recovering, there was no guarantee that it would be enough to save her life.

He'd read the books Rose gave him, yes, but they were surface compared to the depths of pain that Hermione's disorder caused. This type of pain—this insecurity, this inability to predict what her body was going to do—wasn't something that could be read in a book. He knew that. Books didn't talk about recovery or causes—they only talked about symptoms.

They were flying blind.

Madam Pomfrey eyed him for a moment but seemed to accept their relationship as ordinary. Then, she began to speak to Hermione.

During the appointment, Draco sat down on the edge of the bed next to Hermione's, his back slouched and his forearms on his thighs. The troubled expression he wore on his face felt permanent as he watched Pomfrey use spells and contraptions in the Infirmary to check all of Hermione's vitals. When Hermione described the way she felt to the older nurse, Madam Pomfrey's frown deepened.

"It may be your electrolytes again," she said. "If they drop too low, it can cause the symptoms you're describing. It can also stop your heart, Hermione."

"What can I do? I took the potions you talked about, and I haven't—" Hermione sucked in her breath, her wide-eyed gaze sliding to meet Draco's. He felt helpless. "I mean, I took the potions you told me to take. I haven't been stressed out. My electrolytes should be fine."

Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms over her bosom, her lips twisting to the side as she scrutinized Hermione. Draco could tell—she was squirming underneath her stare. She crossed her ankles and uncrossed them. She fidgeted with the hem of her uniform skirt. She swallowed again and again, like her throat was dry.

"Hermione, I have to ask you a question."

Draco saw her face falling, her head tipping down. She knew what was coming. _He_ knew what was coming. He felt his stomach churning. He dropped his head into his hands where Pomfrey couldn't see, the exhaustion settling deep within him. Sadness weighed him down, nearly dragging tears to his eyes.

He couldn't do this again. He knew he couldn't go through this _again_ , but there was nothing he _could_ do.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, voice meek.

"Are you throwing up your food?"

Draco felt something visceral ripping through him. He scrubbed his hands down his face and sat up straight. He glanced off to the right, out the windows. It was easier to look away, to pretend he was somewhere else. To pretend this didn't hurt.

The tension mounted, becoming something frantic, and then Hermione was stammering.

"I used to. I did, I was—I used to, but I don't do it anymore. I haven't done it. He doesn't let—I mean, I'm better. I am. I don't do it anymore."

Madam Pomfrey appeared disturbed as she regarded Draco.

He lowered his gaze, the weight of her revulsion pulling him down. Of course he would be blamed, even when he was just trying to help.

But this was the first time Hermione had admitted to someone other than him that she was sick. This was another milestone, even if it had nothing to do with him. And it was confusing.

How could they be reaching milestones without her getting any better?

"Hermione, I'll have to report this to the Headmistress if this is true," Madam Pomfrey said. "The risks with this are very, _very_ high. They are risks that can't be fixed with potions and magic."

"I know," Hermione whispered, head still down. Her shame was palpable. "I don't do it anymore, though. I'm getting—I'm better. I don't have a disorder."

Draco tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He was no good guy, but the lying was too much. He couldn't take it, knowing that every lie she told just rang another knock against Death's door. The blame he placed on himself was beginning to tear pieces of his heart off and burn them to ash.

Because she wasn't better. She couldn't possibly be. There was no fucking way that she was completely better after one month.

He'd seen the way she looked at herself in the mirror. He'd heard her crying in the shower through the open loo door. He'd watched the way the shame sapped the color in her eyes when she was forced to use her wand to Transfigure her clothes to adjust to her weight.

It felt like they were one step away from the edge and when they went over, he'd have to watch her hit the ground first.

"No, I don't think you have an eating disorder," Madam Pomfrey said, waving a dismissive hand. "Typically, Black women don't develop eating disorders. The statistics just don't support that. But throwing up your food can be extremely damaging to your health."

Draco stared at Madam Pomfrey in shock. He had no idea how to respond to that. It was so fucking wrong that his words had been obliterated by sheer disgust. He looked at Hermione next, and she just looked confused.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "I think I'd like to check your weight again before I can believe that you're not still making yourself sick. Why don't you go step on the scale?"

Hermione gulped and hopped down to the floor. She walked over to the corner of the Infirmary, where there was a large Muggle scale. It was green and made of metal. Draco watched as Hermione hesitated, barely holding his anger back behind a barrier.

"Go ahead," Madam Pomfrey said, tone stern yet encouraging. "It's just the scale, honey. Just like last time."

But it was different this time. Draco wanted to say that—to tell Madam Pomfrey that she hadn't purged in four weeks because he hadn't allowed it—but he felt like his breath had been stolen away from his lungs.

_Wait._

_No._

He'd read it in one of the books. When patients went into see a Healer—or a Muggle doctor—they were weighed and not told their weight. Hermione needed to close her eyes or turn around—to stand backwards. She could look at him, not the number.

She could look at him.

Draco stood up. He opened his mouth, but he was too late.

"Hermione, this is good news!" Madam Pomfrey said, the shorter woman beaming up at her from underneath her mane of grey waves. "You've gained a full twenty pounds since your last visit! I don't know how you did it so fast, but I think this is really, really good to see."

Hermione was as silent as the shadows of death.

"I'm still going to have to report this to the Headmistress," Madam Pomfrey went on to say, her hand coming up to press flat to the center of Hermione's upper back. She patted her as she walked back to the bed. "I hope you understand. Now, as for the tingling you were experiencing, that could just be from anxiety. If you're not throwing up anymore, then your electrolytes should be fine by now."

"And the fluttering?" Hermione asked, moving to stand next to Draco with her hand drifting behind their backs. Draco reached behind him to grab onto her fingers, his thumb massaging the inside of her palm. "The way my heart skipped beats?"

"Heart palpitations can also be caused by anxiety," Madam Pomfrey said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about. I think you just had a run-of-the-mill anxiety attack. Nonetheless, I'll prescribe you a Calming Draught that you can take at night."

Draco stood idle as Hermione accepted three vials of the medicine and then headed over to him. He didn't care that Madam Pomfrey was there, watching. He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. He was relieved at Madam Pomfrey's diagnosis but also perplexed.

He knew what anxiety felt like. What Hermione had described didn't sound like anxiety.

"Mr. Malfoy, wait. May I speak with you?"

Fuck.

Draco squeezed Hermione's shoulder, nodding silently to the doors. Hermione nodded back, her facial expression forlorn as she exited into the hallway.

"What did you need to discuss?" he asked, adjusting the lapels of his blazer as he turned to face the Healer.

Madam Pomfrey approached him, her brow furrowed.

"How long has she been sick?"

Draco's stomach turned with the force of his nerves.

"A while," he said.

"And has she sought medical help before?"

He clenched his teeth against the tension in his body. He was bonded to Hermione, essentially her husband in all magical circuits. He was the one to speak to.

But he didn't want to talk about it.

"Isn't this something you should discuss with your patient?" he asked, his eyes settling upon her with the coldness he felt inside. He wished he was still a Death Eater sometimes. After what Madam Pomfrey had said to Hermione, it made him want to cast an Unforgivable.

"Draco." Madam Pomfrey sounded exasperated. "This isn't something you can fight on your own. She needs to go to St. Mungo's, and she needs treatment. There are facilities she can go to. Places that can help."

"She told you she wasn't doing it anymore. She gained weight. Why would you let her think you believed her if you didn't?"

"Don't be daft, young man." Madam Pomfrey scoffed. "If I told her I was hauling her off to St. Mungo's, what do you think she would do? She'd leave Hogwarts before anyone could get her help. I know how these things work."

"As if I'd let her—" Draco practically snarled, cutting himself off. He turned away, running his hands through his hair. Turning back to the Healer, he said, "Look, I've got this. I do. She gained because of _me_. She stopped doing it because of _me_. All I have to do is—"

"Oh, Draco," she said, sighing heavily with visible pity. "You can't save her. You can't. This isn't something you can fight."

Draco didn't want to hear that. It was wrong. _She_ was wrong.

Because he knew that he could have saved his mother. If he would have just been diligent, been more aware of what was going on, and been more involved. And if he would have saved his mother, she'd be alive, wouldn't she?

Hermione wasn't going to die.

Anger rising to the surface of his sensibilities, he loomed over the Healer. He pointed a furious finger at the ground.

"I _can_ handle this. I _can_ and I _will_. You don't know anything about her, or me, or what our relationship is like. Because if you did, then you would have figured it out a month ago when she came in here before. But you— _none_ of you—can see past your own vision of her and who you think she is."

"That's not—"

"She's suffering," Draco snapped. "She's suffering, and none of you care. None of you adults have _ever_ cared about _any_ of us. We've all just been—been _pawns_ for you people. You used her, you used me, and you used Potter. You used us all. And now we're all _fucked_ in the _head_."

"Draco, you need to calm down." Madam Pomfrey reached for him, but he ripped himself away, throwing his arms up into the air.

"Don't touch me," he spat. "Don't . . . _Touch_ me."

He turned and walked towards the door. She called after him.

"I still have to report this to Headmistress McGonagall. I'm sorry, Draco."

"Yeah," he hissed to himself through his teeth. "Me, too."

Draco jogged to catch up with Hermione, taking her left hand in his right and holding it with both of his own. He pressed it against his chest as they exited the building, all the way back to the bridge. It felt like it was so frail—like he would break her simply from being too overbearing. Or too protective.

Their feet were dull against the wooden slats of the bridge. The sun was high and bright, but the early Spring temperature was cold enough to seep through Draco's blazer and shirt. He brought Hermione's icy fingers up to his lips, kissing them again and again.

They felt so precious to him.

As they came to the halfway point of the bridge, they seemed to come to a mutual agreement to stop.

"Hermione," he said. "I—"

"I guess it's over soon," she interjected in a soft voice. "Once she tells McGonagall."

Draco pressed his lips into a firm line. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't gonna happen. That he was gonna take care of her, that the adults had failed them all and didn't deserve to be the ones who watered her roots when he'd been tending to them all along.

But it would be selfish.

"They're gonna get you help, Hermione. Real help—help I can't give."

"No."

He raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"No." Her eyes blazed up at him, wild and afraid.

"I don't think you have a choice," he said, his voice gentle as he took her by the elbows and pulled her closer.

Her face grew pinched, screwing up with emotion as she fought back tears. "I have to have a choice. They can't force me to do anything I don't want to do. If I don't want to go, they can't make me."

"You're right," he murmured, his hands sliding up to her biceps. "They can't. But _I_ can."

She looked up at him, inhaling to speak, but he silenced her with his lips. It took a moment, but she melted into the kiss with her head tilted back and mouth open to him. A sigh escaped from her and he devoured it, just like he devoured her with his tongue brushing against hers. Her fingers wrapped around his blazer lapels, gripping the fabric tight as she anchored herself to them and pushed onto the tips of her toes.

"And if they tell you to go to St. Mungo's," he breathed, pressing kisses along her jaw while his fingers trailed up the sides of her neck, "then you're going."

"But—"

"Hush," he said, and then he kissed her lips again.

Hermione threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, tasting him like a woman parched. Like she'd been dragging herself through a desert devoid of him for a century. She leaned into him and he held her, his hands sliding up her back in reverence. He could feel her heart beating against the cages of her chest, as though it were reaching for him, too.

Draco wondered if she knew how much he cherished those victorious pieces of her precious heart.

"Draco," she said quietly after she pulled back.

"Yes?" He kissed her cheek, then her cheekbone.

"What if I'm not really sick? What if it's all in my head? What if I'm—I'm faking it?"

"No. You're not faking it. It's real. It's _valid_."

"But Madam Pomfrey said that girls like me—"

" _No_ ," Draco growled, his hands starting to quiver. He closed his eyes. "No. And I'm not trying to be your _Pureblood saviour_ or anything but . . . She was wrong. Whatever she thinks—whatever she's studied—is _wrong_. You are sick. You do have a disorder. And you're valid. But if McGonagall comes calling, you're going with her. Those two things can exist at the same time. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she whispered, lowering her head.

Draco felt like he was playing chess, adjusting his moves and inching his pieces to the left and right, forward and back. Like if he made one wrong move, his army would fall. He had to make the right decisions. The right moves.

The right choices.

He grabbed her chin and dragged it back up. He gave her a serious look, holding her in place before he kissed her again. They shared another few sweet kisses before he took her by the hand and they left the bridge. It was time to tackle breakfast.

Draco could feel it.

A storm, brewing on the horizon of not only their relationship, but their lives. Like heavy dark clouds of something destructive and unavoidable. Anger like thunder and worry like rain. Anxiety, the heat in the air. When he looked at her, searching for those victorious pieces, it was like they were hidden by darkness. He could _feel_ it.

She was going to fall apart.

xxx

He woke up at one in the morning to the smell of cooked meat.

It was bacon or sausage—something aromatic. His bedroom door was cracked open, light from the kitchen peeking into the room from the crack. Confused, he threw the coverlet aside and walked out to see what was going on.

Hermione stood in front of one kitchen counter, a butter knife sawing through the center of a bagel. The hood of the jumper was up and her legs were bare, feet clad in fuzzy socks. On the counter were several plastic containers full of fully-cooked breakfast food, their lids set beside them as the steam rose from their depths. On the stove, there were three pans: one with eggs, one with ham, and one with potatoes.

He placed his hand on the back of one of the chairs at the table, leaning on it. His other hand went to his hip. After a moment of watching her, listening to the sizzling coming from the stove, he cleared his throat.

She screamed, her shoulders jumping with fright. Her hood fell off as she whirled around, revealing her silk bonnet and the face of a very terrified woman.

"I wasn't gonna eat any of it," she stammered, eyes wide. "I swear. I promise."

"Then what were you going to do with it?"

"Just . . . Look at it. I don't know." She scrambled to set the bagel down onto the plate she'd grabbed, and he could see a tub of cream cheese on the counter next to it. She turned to face the counter. He saw her heaving for breath, in a near-panic.

"Hermione, were you going to binge on all of this?"

"No!" she shrieked, remaining faced away from him. "No, I wasn't. I just wanted to _look_ at it."

"You can't expect me to believe that."

She spun again, her expression anxious. "And what are you going to do about it, huh? Call McGonagall? Because who knows when Poppy's going to—" She broke off with a sound of anguish and buried her face in her hands for a moment. Then, with a scowl, she gave him an exhausted look. "Any day now, they're going to call me down there to talk to them, or send someone here, or take me away to somewhere. And then I won't get to—I won't _have_ it anymore."

Draco watched her.

She held a hand to her cheek, looking down at the ground. "I won't have it anymore and I need to do this so I can . . . Can . . ."

"Control it?"

She burst out into tears, her body wracked with the emotions as she sobbed. Those tears sprung to her eyes and rained down her cheeks within seconds. She clutched her hands close to her chest, curling in on herself as though she were exposed to the elements with nothing to shield her body.

Which in a way, he supposed she was. The things she'd been through had stripped her bare and left her without any weapons with which to fight. And when she did possess a weapon, the battle was strenuous and difficult.

Even the victorious needed to rest.

Draco was across the room before she could say anything.

"Why did she have to say that?" she cried. "I don't understand why she'd say that we don't get disorders, then tell me she's going to report me to McGonagall. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you," he said, his voice gentle as his arms wrapped around her. His hand cupped the back of her head, the bonnet's silk soft beneath his touch. "You're just not well."

Draco tried to push his ire back, knowing that remaining angry with the school Healer wasn't going to solve anything. What she'd said was reprehensible and utterly wrong, but that didn't mean that it was true. He knew what was going on.

Hermione felt invalidated.

She felt invalidated and as she shook in his arms, he could tell she was terrified. Possibly of him, possibly of McGonagall. The future. Change. Losing control of everything.

The only thing he was sure of was that Hermione had been sitting out in the middle of the ice, waiting to freeze for way, way too long. Instead speeding up the process by taking warmth away from her, or trying to force her to warm up and melt, he was going to join her.

He would freeze, too.

"Okay, look," he said, holding her at arm's length while continuing to run his hands up and down her shoulders. "Why don't we finish making the food you have on the stove, and then we can look at it together?"

A tear rolled down her cheek as she pouted up at him. He brushed it away.

"Okay?"

"All right," she said, sniffling. "But aren't you angry?"

"No," he said, holding her face and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He didn't know how to tell her that no matter how angry he was with Madam Pomfrey, he wasn't angry with her for wanting to report to McGonagall. Deep down, there was a part of him that was relieved. He wanted to believe he could save her, but with every wrong choice he made—every wrong turn in the road—he just seemed to make everything worse. He'd made so many mistakes that the thought of passing her off to someone else for recovery sounded so . . .

Good.

Draco hated himself for that.

Later, after the food was put away and they were back in bed, they laid down and faced one another.

"I'm scared," she whispered. "I don't know what's gonna happen. That terrifies me."

"Did McGonagall call you down to her office during class or anything today?"

"No," she mumbled.

"Then don't worry about it right now."

"I'm worrying. I didn't think I would gain so _much_. I knew I would gain, but I . . ."

He lifted his hand and held it to her face, his thumb stroking her skin until she trailed off. Their eyes searched one another's. Seconds ticked by, and then their breathing synced.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured. "This is a good thing."

"It doesn't _feel_ good."

Draco's overwhelming emotions pushed him to rain kisses across his witch's cheeks and down the line of her throat. He kissed the tracks of her dried tears, tasted the remnants of her pain like the salt of the Earth. Because she was the light in his world, even if she was suffering. She brought something to his life—a purpose. A reason.

Everything.

"My bonnet," she gasped.

"Leave it on."

She turned her face toward him and their lips slammed together with a fervent desire that Draco hadn't realized he was feeling. Their kisses were brief, nothing like the drawn-out ones they'd shared before. This time, it felt like it was just a means to an end. A pathway to getting as close to each other as possible. He didn't know how she felt, but he knew that after waking up to find her in such a vulnerable state, terrified of him and frightened of her future, he just wanted to sink inside of her and chase it all away.

"Spread your legs," he whispered against her lower abdomen as he dragged her knickers down and discarded them somewhere beneath the sheets. His fingers trailed over her skin, soft and all his.

His fingers found her core, drawing a soft moan from her lips as he brought his mouth to her clit. Her thighs parted and she cried out, her feet against the mattress providing an anchor so she could grind herself along his tongue. Her hands gripped the sheets and her chest arched towards the sky.

"I'm already gonna come," she squeaked out in desperation, her body twitching as his tongue flicked against her clit with gentle, slow movements. "Gods, Draco—please. Please don't stop. I'll do anything—please don't stop."

Because he knew the way she liked it. Draco knew her body, how it responded when he was soft with her. It was like playing an instrument, something as beautiful as stroking his fingers across the golden strings of a harp.

When she came, she clutched both sides of his head and held him in place, her moans sending need curling through his lower body. Blood rushed South, and then he was crawling up the length of her body. They kissed, their tongues caressing, his hips moving against hers as he felt the wetness of her center through the fabric of his pyjama trousers.

"I'm scared, too," he said, stilling the motion of his hips so he could lift himself up on his hands. "But it's okay. I'm not going anywhere, even if they take you away."

"I don't know where they're going to take me," she said, sounding sad. "I don't know how bad it will get."

"Healing is never bad," he said. "It's already gotten bad enough. It's bad right now. If they take you away, then there's only a path upward that's left for you to climb."

"I don't want them to take me away." She closed her eyes and he saw another tear escaping out of the corner of her eyes. "I don't know."

"I _do_ know," he said, his hand sliding up the back of her thigh as his other hand pushed his pants down. She gasped when he sank inside of her, her walls clutching him in deeper and deeper. Her eyes never left his. "I do know."

The sensations of her sent him spinning into shadows and pleasure, hot and tight and velvet-smooth as she wrapped around his cock. Her hands clenched into fists by her head, each slam of his hips into hers causing her breathing pattern to stutter. His fingers curled into the mattress as his arm held himself up, and he felt the slickness of her swollen clit beneath the pads of the forefingers of his right hand. His hair fell into his eyes.

"Draco." Another gasp. "That feels . . . So . . . So good."

"Come on," he breathed as he thrust. His stomach clenched and unclenched, overcome with emotions he couldn't quite understand. Emotions that brought a sting to his eyes that he hid with his lips against her ear. "Come on, love. I wanna feel you come on me. I need to feel it."

Her back arched as he hit a spot inside of her that split her apart, and then she was crying out his name. He'd never heard her do that when they were fucking, but it was everything to him. She was everything to him and if he lost her—

A sadness came over him like a shudder and he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, letting out another groan. Her arms snaked around his neck, her thighs spreading as wide as she could so she could grind her pearl against his pelvis. He thrust hard, firm in his strokes, until she went slack below him so he was doing the grinding for her.

"You're—You're making me come," she whined, her voice high-pitched and strained by his ear. "I'm gonna _fucking_ come again."

"Yeah?" he hissed through his teeth, reaching down to pin one of her thighs flat to the mattress. He rolled his hips as he ground against her, relishing in the way she continued to sob. "You're such a sweet girl for me, aren't you? That's it. That's it, come again for me, sweet girl."

She took several deep, halting breaths inward, her back slowly arching higher as she did, and then she let them out in guttural moan. Draco pulled his head back, watching as her eyes rolled up into her head and sent her into the stars. Stars that bonded them together and stars that could tear them apart. Stars that he would bring to her if he could.

As she came down from her high, Hermione surprised him by hooking a leg around his hips and rolling him onto his back. Still wearing the hooded jumper, she leaned forward, her hands pressing flat to his bare chest, fingers tracing the outlines of his tattoos. He choked on the air he breathed as she began a steady rise and fall.

"Do you like when I do this?" she whispered, her hips moving faster.

" _Fuck_." Draco dragged the word out, lifting his head to watch her impale herself upon his cock again and again, the moonlight from the window illuminating it. He nodded, frantic motions of his head. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"It's m-my—" His breath caught on a moan and his fingertips dug into the flesh of her thighs. "—favorite. Oh, _fuck_. Fuck."

"And this?" she moaned.

Her fingers slid up to his throat, covered his roses and chains, and choked him.

"Slower, sl-slower. _Ah_ , yeah." His head fell back, his own back arching up as she followed his instructions and slowed her hips. Tingling shivers ran throughout his entire body. He groaned, deep in his chest as his hips bucked. He could feel her fingers pressing into the sides of his throat, felt his air being constricted. It made his head spin. " _Fuck_ , it's so _fucking_ good."

He could feel it coming closer, creeping along the edges of his consciousness. He bit his lip, looking down to watch again. He loved to see it, loved to watch what she did to his body as she wrestled him into a state of submissiveness with the whispers of her core.

"Come on. That's a good girl. Make me come," he growled through his teeth, past his lack of air, desperate as he gripped her rear and pulled her backward and forward. He could feel himself inside of her, every inch of himself touching every inch of her.

Her fingers squeezed his throat tighter, until he couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything except feel.

Draco came suddenly and without warning, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside of her. He felt the euphoria washing over him in waves, rippling along his muscles and drawing him to sit up. He slid his arms around her waist, fingers sliding up her spine so he could lift her off of him. They kissed as he did, her fingers tickling his scalp as she tilted her head to the side and rested her elbows on his shoulders.

After murmured cleaning and contraceptive spells, he didn't have the energy to do anything other than lay down, hold her close, and sleep.

xxx

The next day, Hermione didn't show up to Charms.

Draco sat in his usual seat, casting glances toward the door. Where was she? She should have gotten here before him. Her first class was closer than his was. If it weren't for the fact that he'd had to stay after, he would have picked her up at her classroom like he always did.

He couldn't shake the anxiety that had dug its claws into his heart, restricting its beating and making it difficult for him to breathe.

What if something was wrong?

Fifteen minutes into the start of class, when she still hadn't come, Draco moved to sit beside Pansy while Flitwick's back was turned. The other students looked at him, but no one said anything. He leaned over and murmured to her, asking if she'd seen Hermione.

"I thought you always picked her up from her class," Pansy whispered, her expression perturbed. "Did you not do it today?"

He shook his head. Flitwick was in front of the room, lecturing, so Draco kept his voice down when he spoke.

"No, I had to stay after in Muggle Studies to fix something on an assignment I turned in. By the time I was done, I figured she would have just gone on her own. Did you see her in the corridors at all?"

Pansy shook her head, her black hair shaking around her. "Maybe she skived off class?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

Except that she wouldn't do that. Not after everything they'd been through. She knew the rules. She knew that Draco dropped her off at and picked her up from every class. He would have thought that her fear of his reaction would be enough to keep her following those rules, but apparently not.

So where was she?

Draco didn't make it much longer in class. Between his leg bouncing under the table with his heavy agitation and the violent way his stomach kept clenching, there was no way that he could stay there. While Flitwick was in the middle of demonstrating a new charm for them, he gathered up all of his things and stormed out of the room.

Flitwick called after him in confusion, but Draco ignored him.

He needed to find Hermione.

Draco rushed back to the common room, knowing that it was best to check there first. There was always the chance that she was napping or just wanted a break because she wasn't feeling well. She also could have gotten called down to McGonagall's office. There were many possibilities.

Why was he only thinking of one?

When he made it back to the main floor corridor, he took off at a sprint past the doors to the Great Hall. He skidded to a halt by the portrait, seeing to his surprise that Dumbledore wasn't there. He didn't know if he could get in, but he said the password anyway.

Nothing happened.

Dragging his hands through his hair, he felt himself growing close to panic. Something was wrong. It was inside of him—a feeling he couldn't shake that she was hurt or in trouble. He didn't know what it could possibly be that was wrong, but it felt off. Like putting his trousers on backward or holding his wand at the wrong end. It nagged at the back of his mind, refusing to let him calm down until he got answers.

Fuck it. He would destroy the portrait if he had to.

He stepped up, curling his fingers around the edge of the portrait's frame. The chance was slim, especially with Dumbledore gone. But what if Dumbledore was gone because he went to get help?

Draco pulled.

It was open.

He didn't stop to analyze anything. He stepped inside.

The bathroom light was on.

No. Fuck no. There was no way that she would skip class just to purge. Not when the risk of him getting angry was still present. She wasn't stupid.

Seething, he stormed down the hall.

"Hermione _fucking_ Granger, I know you're not skiving off class just so you can . . ."

He trailed off, his heart coming to a dead stop in his chest.

The loo was occupied.

Hermione was on the floor, collapsed on her side with her arms thrown haphazardly by her head and her legs closed as though she'd been on her knees before the porcelain. Theo stood over her, his face ashen and his hands sunk deep into his hair. There was vomit in the toilet and smeared across Hermione's face, red and orange mixed together like a disgusting tribute to the impending destruction of her disorder.

"I was just holding her hair back," Theo said. "I was just holding it back and then she just— _fell over_ , I—I don't—"

"Shut up," Draco whispered, his hand trembling as he held it in the air for silence, "and move."

"I tried to _rennervate_ her. It didn't work." There were tears in Theo's eyes as he moved back, towards the door to the loo so Draco could enter the room. "She gasped and fell over. I thought she was taking a break. I didn't know."

"I told you . . ." Draco pointed an angry finger in Theo's face, glaring at him with all the hatred he could muster. ". . . To shut. _Up_."

Theo's mouth closed.

Draco had barely the wherewithal to grasp that Theo was here because he was _helping_ her. Didn't have the mental capacity to focus on the hows and the whys. He didn't care about that right now. He couldn't.

All he saw was Hermione, lying prone on the floor. Just like his mother, lying prone in his lap as her last breath escaped her before he could catch it. It was every nightmare he'd been fighting so hard to stop from coming true. Like a twisted version of the dream world they hadn't seen in weeks—a version where the sky rained acid, the ocean reared up in a destructive tidal wave, and the flowers were dead.

The wrong choices that he'd made had led to this.

"No, no, no," Draco said in a panicked rush of breath, falling to his knees beside Hermione, gathering her up into his arms. His fingers smeared through the vomit as he wiped it from her face. He was panicking—he could feel himself panicking. His voice broke. "No. You're not. You're fucking not. Come here. Come on."

Theo stepped forward from the hall. "Draco, I—"

" _Shut your fucking mouth_!" Draco roared. "Go get McGonagall."

"But—"

" _No_! Go _fucking_ get McGonagall!"

A pained, terrified expression flashed across Theo's face, and then he turned and fled.

"Come on," Draco whispered, his voice nearly a whine. Why was her head lolling backward like that? His soiled fingers fluttered down to her pulse, pressing inward. Feeling. "Don't fucking leave me, Hermione. Don't fucking do this right now. Come on."

Why didn't he have the energy to tell her he loved her before they fell asleep last night?

His fingers moved across her throat.

Feeling. Searching. Trying to find a flicker of life.

Trying to find hope.

He held his breath.

She had no pulse.


	43. Chapter 43

**Trigger Warning: This chapter is full of medical stuff and ED references.**

* * *

**Apricity – Chapter Forty-One**

_Breathe._

"How long has it been, Ronald? Don't dally—spit it out! How long as she been in there?!"

" _Mum_ , for Merlin's sake! Calm down—she's gonna be fine."

"Don't _tell_ me to calm down. Arthur, are you going to let our son talk to me like that? Don't _tell_ me to calm down when my daughter is—she's— _Oh._ "

"Now, Molly. It's all right. The Healers know what they're doing. They'll get her right as rain any moment now."

"Where's Minerva? Is she still here?"

"No, she had to go back to the school."

_Come on and breathe._

"I'm not certain we should be here, Pansy."

"Shut your mouth, Blaise. We're staying."

"But—"

"You _do_ realize she's like my _only_ girlfriend, right? We're _staying_."

"Okay, fine, but we should stay off to the side. This seems like a family-first situation. Can you at least agree to that?"

"No."

"Pansy."

" _No_. I'm staying right here. But you're welcome to stand off to the side by your lonesome."

". . . You're infuriating. But I'll stay."

_You can do it. Just take a breath for me._

"Has Harry arrived yet, Arthur? Oh, he's going to have his heart broken."

"No, darling, he's not—but speak of the Devil."

" _Where is she? Where the Hell is Hermione Granger?! Where—_ no, Ginny! I'm not going to lower my voice!"

"You're going to startle the other patients, Harry!"

"I don't care! Let them all wake the fuck up and get over it!"

"Harry."

_I'm sorry for everything I did wrong. I'm so sorry for all the wrong choices._

"What are you doing all the way over here, mate?"

"I don't—I don't belong here. I should go, Blaise. I really shouldn't—"

"Why do you think that?"

"Because this is m-my fault. She wouldn't be h-here if I had—if I h-hadn't—"

"Theo, come on. You guys are such close friends. I'm sure whatever happened was something that couldn't be helped."

"No. No, it—I—I just shouldn't be here."

"Then why are you?"

". . . Just because I shouldn't doesn't mean I don't want to be."

_I want to fix it._

_I want to fix everything._

_Please don't leave me._

Everyone was here for her. Everyone. The people who loved her. The people she thought didn't love her. They were all here, waiting on the edge of the metaphorical cliff to find out the fate of their Hermione Granger.

And Draco was on the floor.

He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, the back of his skull hitting the wooden wall as he looked up at the ceiling.

Around him, littered impatiently along the empty hall on their feet and in chairs sat multiple people. Arthur. Molly. Potter. Ginny. Theo. The Weaselbee. Pansy. Blaise.

But Draco only had eyes for Theo.

Who did he think he was? Really— _who_ did he think he _was_?

Theo was the reason Hermione was in there with the Healers—they were working to save her life. Theo was the reason why she had gotten so sick without anyone noticing, without anyone seeing just how deep into the pit she'd fallen. He'd been helping her dig the pit deeper, and for what reason? There wasn't a single reason on Earth that made sense.

Nothing excused Theo for helping to dig her grave.

They'd been in this corridor at St. Mungo's for nearly two hours, waiting for the Healers to come out of the room and tell them Hermione's fate. McGonagall had been able to revive her, but her heart had stopped again on the way to the Floo. Draco had been internally distraught, not wanting to make a target or fool out of himself as he went with them to the hospital.

Now, they were all just waiting while other Healers and patients of the hospital wandered the opposite end of the corridor and kept their distance.

"What happened?" Molly blew her nose into a pale blue kerchief, her face ruddy and eyes leaking constant tears. "Who knows what happened to her?"

"Well, Minerva sent me an emergency correspondence, informing me of the situation," Arthur said, his arm strong around his wife's shaking shoulders. "From what she said, I gleaned that there was an accident of some sort . . . ? I'm not sure what happened."

"Does anyone have any idea?" Harry whirled in the hall, his hair and eyes wild. "Do any of you know why the Hell we're here?!"

Draco turned his glare on Theo, who stood against the wall beside an unsuspecting Pansy and Blaise. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to hurt him _badly_. He wanted to tear his eyes out and rip his throat from his neck. He wanted Theo to bleed for every moment that Hermione had felt safe enough to binge and purge around him.

But he couldn't move. He didn't want to. What if he moved away from the door and she died?

He couldn't feel her heart anymore.

"I know why we're here." Theo stepped away from the wall, his fingers fidgeting before his abdomen. He looked like a mess—eyes red from crying and face pale. His wavy hair was limp with sweat, no doubt from nerves and anxiety. He sniffled. "And it's my fault."

The silence reverberated around the room, everyone except Draco exchanging glances.

Draco simply glared.

Arthur pulled away from Molly and stepped closer to Theo. His brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his threadbare, patched blazer. "What's your name?"

"I'm Theo. Theodore Nott Jr." Theo lowered his gaze. "Sir."

Harry drifted a couple of steps closer, but Ginny's hand on his shoulder stopped him from crowding. The look in his eyes hovered somewhere at the foot of a guillotine, like he was ready to behead Theo if need be.

Draco felt the same.

"What happened, Theo?" Arthur asked. "Why do you think this is your fault?"

Draco gritted his teeth. He wanted to jump up and start yelling. He wanted to launch himself across the hallway at his former best friend and throttle him. Maybe slit his throat and watch the blood stain his clothes. Maybe use an Unforgivable.

But he couldn't _._

Theo glanced down at Draco, who glowered up at him with all the rage burning within him that he could muster. Then, Theo looked up at Arthur, drawing his shoulders back.

"Hermione and I have been friends since the war. I knew she wasn't doing well when I visited her over the Summer and I saw that her eating habits were poor. We talked about it and I believed her when she told me it was just an extreme diet. When school started up again, I knew by then that it wasn't just a diet. But I knew if anyone found out, she'd just end up in the papers, and it would make things worse."

As he listened, Draco felt the envy clawing at his heart.

Even though Draco hadn't been anything to her that Summer, it hurt to know that she'd trusted Theo so easily that she'd told him about her disorder that fast. That the truth had slipped off of her tongue like it was as easy as breathing air, but Draco's own relationship with her had been fraught with trauma, pain, and toxicity.

From beneath his fringe, his glare intensified.

"I figured if I helped her, then she wouldn't get more stressed out, and I'd be able to help her if it got out of hand."

"If what got out of hand?" Arthur asked, both looking and sounding perplexed.

"The vomiting."

" _What_?" The Weaselbee burst forward, pushing past Harry and coming to stand beside his father. "She was _what_?"

"Making herself sick," Theo said, looking more drawn than he had a second ago. "She was making herself sick and when we talked about it, I saw that she just needed someone who was gonna accept her the way she was. So I helped her."

"You did _what_?" Now Harry was there, on Arthur's other side, and his hand was creeping toward his wand. "What are you talking about?"

Theo closed his eyes, turning his head toward the wall. There was a reluctant expression on his face as he attempted to start his sentence repeatedly. It was clear he didn't want to do it. But more than that, he was ashamed.

"Spit it out," Ginny said, voice flat. "What did you help her do?"

Theo dragged his hands through his hair and then threw them up into the air in a helpless gesture.

"I helped her. I got her food that she could snack on so no one would see her going to Hogsmeade too often. Sometimes, when she was feeling meek, I would go in and help her."

"Help her do _what_?"

"Hold her hair back. Or I'd help her stay upright when she bent over. I just . . . My goal was to make sure I was there just in case she—well, in case she—"

"Died?" Arthur said, a quiet anger layered beneath his tone.

Theo nodded. "I'm sorry."

Draco felt his rage growing again. Holding her hair back was bad. But holding her up so she didn't fall over because she was _dying_?

If he didn't calm down, violent things were going to happen.

He pulled his hood up onto the back of his head, tugged his sleeves down over his hands, folded his arms on top of his knees, and buried his face in them. He was shaking. Absolutely shaking. He was so angry that it hurt. He wanted to kill Theo as badly as he'd wanted to kill the man from Paris. His leg began to tremble, bouncing in his agitation.

He was about to lose it.

"I figured she'd stop when she got to whatever weight she thought she wanted. That's all it was about—she just wanted to lose weight. I thought it was okay. But we got caught." With a forlorn sigh, he hung his head. "We didn't think we'd ever get caught."

"Are you _stupid_?" It was Pansy this time, and her heels echoed against the stone floor as she came close. "Don't you know how dangerous it is to throw up your food? It's like, it's whatever if it happens once or twice. But _regularly_ to _lose weight_?!" She smacked Theo on the arm. "What the Hell is wrong with you?!"

"She said _you_ knew, so I don't know why you're yelling at me!"

"Because you're standing here telling us that you literally _helped her throw up!"_ Pansy was screaming, her rage and indignation palpable in the air. "How do you not see how fucked up that is!"

"I _do_ see how fucked up it is!" Theo shouted right back, prompting Blaise to push away from the wall with a warning look. Theo lowered his voice. "I do see how fucked up it is. And that's why I'm fessing up to everything now."

"To clear your conscience," Harry snarled.

Theo turned around to face him. "Of course to clear my conscience."

"How clear is it now? Is it made of crystal?" Harry said with a sarcastic sneer. His hand was around the handle of the wand in its holster. He was dressed in his Auror robes, signifying that he'd come straight from work for this. "Or do you need to polish it a bit more?"

Theo looked away, his hands trembling.

"You're a right tosser, you know that?" The Weaselbee had gone crimson with his fury. "I don't know what planet you're living on that would make you think it was okay to help her do—do _whatever_ to herself. Now I have to stand here feeling guilty for not being able to help her when I've known her longer than you."

"Well, maybe you should have been a better boyfriend and you would have been the one to help her."

"Guys, let's not do this." Blaise joined the group, hands in the pockets of his trousers. He shook his head. "We're in the middle of St. Mungo's."

"Well, everyone's jumping down _my_ throat when they should all be looking at themselves, too!" Theo cried, waving his hands about. "Why should I have to be the one shouldering all the blame when we _all_ stood there and watched as she destroyed herself for months?"

Draco had been carrying that guilt for a long time.

Knowing that she was sick while he messed with the chess pieces on the board to ensure that she had a clear path to the other side. Making things easy for her when he really should have just gone to McGonagall the day he'd walked in on her purging for the first time. He knew how hard it was to admit the guilt for that.

But everyone needed to learn to carry their own share of the burden. Theo was right—they had all played a passive role in the sad play that was Hermione's life. She wasn't a fucking punching bag, so he didn't understand why the universe kept using her as one. And every single one of her friends and family members had stepped aside to make way for the stars to take their blows.

The star bond didn't matter. Their past didn't matter. Nothing mattered except her illness. Nothing _should_ have mattered except for that. They should have prioritized it, and now, they were _all_ paying the price.

Draco now realized that it didn't matter if she was the one with her fingers down her throat. Their complacency might as well have been hands holding her hair back while she did it.

He stood up.

Everyone's heads swiveled to look at him, their faces all appearing simultaneously worried and apprehensive as Draco loomed there. He seethed for a half of a moment, resisting his urge to lunge.

"You don't have the right to be defensive," Draco said to Theo, his voice a dangerous, dark whisper. He lowered his chin, focusing all of his ire into holding Theo's gaze. "If you would have told an adult sooner, then she might not have gotten as sick as she did. She made herself sick when she was younger, but this was just a relapse. It could have been handled. She could be getting better right now."

"We _are_ adults."

"Doesn't matter."

"But it was _her_ body."

Draco shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

There was a pause as Theo floundered for a moment, during which everyone shifted from one foot to the other. Their gazes were intent on Theo, waiting. Like Draco, they all just wanted an explanation. Pansy and Ginny were the only two who seemed to be uncaring of said explanation—they thought he was rubbish no matter what.

Theo's brow furrowed, his mind visibly racing behind his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be responsible for everyone else, Draco. I didn't know it was dangerous! I didn't—"

"Then you _do_ your fucking _research_!" Draco shouted, pointing an angry finger in Theo's direction. "You do your research and make sure the person you care about isn't hurting themselves. If you had done your research, then you would have known _immediately_ that what she was doing was dangerous, and that she needed help. And even if you really were too stupid to do that, you've got two fucking eyes. You know what her personality's like when she's herself. She hasn't been herself for months."

The Weaselbee was eyeing him, a begrudging, sour pull to his lips as he looked Draco up and down. Draco didn't care what he thought or wanted. He didn't care that these people were hearing him say more words than they probably had ever heard him say. Aside from Harry and Ginny, Draco barely knew them and they barely knew him.

But he'd be damned if they didn't realize who he was to Hermione before the end of the night.

"You're a hypocrite!" Theo yelled. "You're standing there, telling me what to do as if you're perfect. Why didn't _you_ speak up? Why didn't _you_ do your research?"

"I _did_ ," Draco hissed, drawing multiple gazes. "I did do my research."

"So why didn't yousay anything?"

Guilt coalesced in the pit of Draco's stomach, making him feel queasy. He felt it oozing through his body like sludge in his veins, reminding him that no matter how much he felt like he'd changed, there were still dark parts of himself that remained. His selfishness. His inability to trust. His closeminded outlook on life. The possessive, protective nature that had caused him to try and "save" someone who just couldn't be saved. All the things that had combined to convince him that telling an adult—one in _authority_ —was terrifying.

But there was no excuse for not putting her life before his fear.

He'd fucked up. He'd made the wrong choices. He was paying for them now.

Theo needed to understand that part of taking responsibility was understanding that not all things to blame needed apologies. This wasn't something that needed apologies left and right.

Theo. Draco. Harry. Ginny. Pansy. Weasley.

They'd _all_ fucked up. They'd _all_ dropped the Snitch.

They were _all_ to blame.

"Draco," Molly said, her voice thick with the remnants of her emotion. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Draco lowered his gaze until it locked with Molly's. He hoped she could see his own shame there.

"Because I made the wrong choice. I accept responsibility for that. I'm bonded to her but I didn't take care of her like I'm supposed to. I'm not gonna make excuses, or apologize to make myself feel better, or even go back and try to figure out what I could have done differently. I'm just gonna do the right thing from here on out."

There were nods at first, the majority seeming to agree with his words.

Until they sunk in.

Blaise was the first to notice, his jaw dropping as he stared over at Draco in astonishment. Pansy's hand clapped over her mouth. Then Ginny's followed suit, the two girls exchanging glances. Harry and Arthur realized it at the same time, the two of them blinking like their vision was blurry. Molly frowned so deeply that the wrinkles in her brow were affected by it. Theo moved one step back, giving Draco a once-over.

The Weaselbee exploded.

"You're _what_ , now?!" he practically screeched, storming closer to Draco. " _What_ did you just say?!"

"We're bonded." Draco stood his ground, barely flinching. He merely studied the Weaselbee like a curious animal. "Hermione and I."

"Please tell me you mean metaphorically," Harry said with a weak laugh. "Like, bonded through circumstance of emotions."

"Nope," Draco said, slipping a lazy hand into the pocket of his denims. "My parents got concerned and performed a ritual when we were in Third Year. They bonded Hermione and I together. We've been dealing with it for the past couple of months, trying to figure everything out."

"Explain," Arthur said, flabbergasted. "Start from the beginning."

Over the next five minutes, Draco explained as succinctly as he could the details of the binary star bond. He told them everything appropriate, from his mother's role to his father's role to the information they'd learned from Trelawney. By the time he was done speaking, everyone looked stunned.

Everyone except Theo, who was glaring at Draco with white-hot intensity.

"Well, we need to plan a wedding," was the first thing Pansy said. She glanced across the circle at Ginny. "We're gonna have to plan a wedding."

"Oh, absolutely," Ginny agreed. "Right, mum?"

"Of course," Molly said, twisting the kerchief as she looked up in thought. "We could hold it in the backyard, just like we did with Bill and Fleur's. Oh, but this time, I think we should hire better entertainment. The—"

"Whoa, whoa!" The Weaselbee's teeth were bared. "Don't start talking like that! They're not getting married." He whirled on Draco. "You're not _married_."

Draco had no intention of holding any weddings anytime soon, but it was mildly amusing to watch Weasley fume.

"She's definitely mine," he drawled. "So I think everyone should listen to me when I tell you that we all fucked up."

"And while a wedding sounds nice," Arthur added in a strained tone, his arm returning to Molly's shoulders, "I think Hermione's wellness matters more, don't you think?"

" _You are not bloody married, are you?!"_ the Weaselbee roared.

"In a way, yes." Draco pushed his hair back, shrugging. "It's technically a marriage bond. But we don't really look at it like that. She's as much mine as I am hers. We understand what it means and we just want to figure things out."

"You've got to be joking." The Weaselbee crossed his arms over his chest, huffing an incredulous laugh. "' _We.'"_

"Aren't unconsented-to marriage bonds illegal?" the Weaselbee asked. "I'm doubtful that she wanted to marry _you_."

"Does it matter?" Harry said, and he caught Draco's eye. Draco saw a measure of approval there. "It's not something we can change."

"Is she gonna make it, do you think?" Blaise asked, looking around. "I'm not sure how bad it was, but—"

"Her heart stopped," Draco said.

" _What_?" several voices clamored at once.

It was clear that Theo and Draco were the only two who knew what had brought her into St. Mungo's.

"Her heart stopped and McGonagall was able to get it going again long enough to bring her here," Draco explained, trying his best to build his mental walls against the memories. The mental images of her lying on that bathroom floor, covered in sick and steeped in death. It felt like it was burned into his memory, trauma etched into the grooves of his brain that would keep him floating in his nightmares for years. "Then we came straight here."

"That was—" Theo cleared his throat. "That was my fault, too."

_Too?_

"It was class time," Theo said, "but she'd already asked me beforehand if we could skive off so she could . . . So she—"

"So she could purge," Draco supplied, his bluntness causing a few of the assembled to cringe. "Because I wasn't letting her."

"You weren't _letting_ her?" Arthur gave him a disturbed look.

"I had rules for her," Draco explained. He knew how fucked up it was, now that he looked back on it. But there was going to be no shirking of responsibilities, nor apologies from him. Only action and honesty. "Rules we agreed on. Every time they stopped working, we discussed and shifted things around. I realize now that I should have told someone."

"Yes, you certainly should have," Molly said, sounding angry as she blew her nose into the kerchief. "You should not have been making rules like that for her when she needed help from her family."

Draco felt his hackles raise.

"I _am_ her family," he growled.

There was a collective releasing of tension, only for someone to wind it taut again.

"Then if you're her family, act like it," Theo said. "You say you're bonded. That it's a marriage-type bond. You should act like a husband. Protect her, even if its from herself. Don't come clawing out _my_ eyes for what I've done when you can't even see how selfish you are. Don't come at me for—"

"For selfishly enabling her so she could stay ill and keep needing you?" Draco's glare was as hot as the nucleus of a star. "How about you look at yourself, Nott? Don't pretend like your actions weren't selfish. Don't pretend like every moment that you've spent helping her stay disordered wasn't for your own personal gain."

"No. No, that's not true." Theo shook his head. "What could I possibly hope to gain from her being ill?"

"You said it yourself you hadn't done any research, mate," Blaise said, hands moving to his hips.

"And?"

"That implies you didn't know how sick she was!" Blaise said, raising his voice and laughing a bit. "That means that the only reason why you would help her with something like this was if you were getting something out of it! If that's not it, then _why_ would you help her?"

Theo glared at him. "You always take his side. You always defend him."

Blaise raised one eyebrow. "And you're avoiding the question."

"Because I already told everyone why!" Theo tangled his hands in his hair, distressed. "Why does no one believe that I really didn't know how dangerous it was?"

"Are you really sure it's necessary to be arguing like this?" Harry said, rubbing his temple. "Hermione might not make it, and we're all standing out here, dealing with more headaches."

Draco ignored him, as did everyone else.

"What you're not grasping," he said angrily, "is that it doesn't matter what you knew or didn't know. Take _responsibility_ for what you did. Stop trying to pick which parts to accept blame for and which parts to give to someone else to deal with. Accept that what you did was fucked up, _whether you knew it or not._ "

Theo looked like he was about to cry again.

"I didn't want her to be _sick_. I wanted to _fix it_."

Draco understood. He did. He knew that Theo was probably feeling overwhelmed, that he felt like taking responsibility and accepting his share of the blame was equal to murdering Hermione. That if she didn't survive, he'd have to carry that guilt forever.

But he needed to suck it up.

Holding her hair back, buying her binge food, and keeping her upright so she didn't pass out was not fixing it. It was engraving her name on a headstone.

And it was a lie.

"You didn't want to fix it," Draco said, his loathing dripping from his voice like poison. "You wanted her to be like this because it was the only way you could have her, wasn't it? Because you fancied her and as long as she was mine, then the only way you could have her was if she needed you. You needed her to need you, so you enabled her."

Theo stared at him with angry, unshed tears burning in his eyes. His silence was answer enough.

Molly and Arthur exchanged looks. Harry and Ginny both looked absorbed. The Weaselbee looked like someone had cast _stupefy_ on him. Pansy had her lips pursed like this was a gossip session. Blaise looked like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop so he could figure out if he needed to duel Theo or not.

"That's not what this is about," Theo said, but his voice was meek. Tremulous.

"Yes, it is." Draco took another step closer to him, their chest inches apart. His fingers clenched into a fist at his side. "I've known it since the day we went to Hogsmeade and you told me witches deserved nice things. You fancy her. And that's what this is _all_ about."

Theo blinked, taken aback. In his eyes, Draco could see him crumbling to ash.

"No, you wanna tell me I don't have the right to be defensive." Theo jabbed his finger against his chest. "You wanna act like I'm the only one to blame. But you need to admit exactly what you did was just as bad. You made rules for her so she could keep doing it. How is that any different?"

Draco was going to cut his hand off and watch him bleed to death if he didn't knock it off.

"I didn't have ulterior motives," he said. "You did."

"Or _did_ you?" Theo's eyebrows shot up. "You had feelings for her, too."

"Not this Summer." Draco's lips curled up into the ghost of a smirk. "Not when you first started helping her. And when I found out she was sick, I didn't know _how_ I felt. Me helping her was purely to keep her alive. But you? Your help was for your own satisfaction. You thought if you showed her you were the best choice—that you were freedom and I was a cage—that she'd pick you."

Theo blanched.

Draco's words had hit home.

"And you're the one with the Dark Mark," Theo spat out as though the very thought of Draco made him want to die. "Forgive me if I believe the best option for her is someone from the side of light. Not the darkness you exist inside of."

That hurt.

"I have one, too," Blaise said, the side of his hand against Theo's chest as he gave him a look of disapproval. "Let's not make this about that."

"Yeah, well. You're not the one who deserves it."

_Deserves it?_

How the fuck could Theo, someone he'd called a best friend for over a decade, truly think that he deserved the agony of the Dark Mark just because he liked the same girl? How long had he been harboring these feelings? Were they just because he wanted Hermione?

Was he really that selfish?

Colossal red stars burst in front of Draco's eyes as his fury swelled and burst into flames. He couldn't take it anymore. He lunged forward, grabbing the front of Theo's shirt and rearing his fist back to strike.

He wanted to kill him. He wanted to fucking kill him the way he should have killed the Weaselbee and the man from Paris.

If Hermione died, Draco would rather be in Azkaban.

The group came to life, Arthur, Molly, Ginny, Harry, the Weaselbee, and Blaise's voices all yelling at once. Pansy did nothing but sigh as Arthur and Blaise each grabbed at Draco's upper arms, trying to hold him back. Molly was waving her hands about, chastising them for acting like children. Ginny looked like she wanted to punch Theo herself. Harry was reluctant in his attempt at placating.

It was chaotic.

Just then, the door burst open.

There had been two nurses, a Medical Potioneer, and a Head Healer that had originally entered the room with Hermione for surgery.

The Potioneer exited first, carrying his medical bag of anesthetics with him. Then came the two nurses, determined looks on their faces as they discussed methods of prolonged care. Finally, out walked the Head Healer, Healer March. She looked exhausted yet accomplished.

And suddenly, Draco's entire world was Hermione again.

He shrugged the hands off of him, turning to face Healer March.

"Where is she?" he asked, breathless. "Is she in there? Can we go in?"

"She's in there, yes," March said, her black braid swinging at her hip. "But only immediate family is permitted at this time. She's all right, but we're prepping a permanent room for her."

The relief that Draco felt nearly brought tears to his eyes. He let out a heavy breath, unable to stop his lips from twitching up. He laced his fingers behind his head for a second, breathing air that felt clearer and less full of shadows. Then, he pulled his hood up again and rubbed his hand down his mouth and jaw.

"Is she awake? Can I see—"

"Now, hold on!" Molly sounded panicked as she came to stand beside Draco. She was so short that her head barely reached his shoulder. "A permanent room? How long is she going to have to stay here? We can take her home to the Burrow. Isn't that right, Arthur? We've got plenty of space for her there."

"I think it's best that Miss Granger stays here at the hospital for a bit." There was a strange look in Nurse March's eyes, flickering in her green irises. "She's got some things we need to monitor."

"How long is the recovery time? Maybe we can compromise."

"Are you her mother?" March asked.

"Well—" Molly's smile faltered. "In a manner, I suppose that—"

"I'm her . . . Husband," Draco said, stumbling over the word. He rubbed the back of his neck.

March gave him a perturbed look. "Her husband? You're barely out of Seventh Year. Are you registered with the Ministry?"

"I think it was automatic . . . ? I dunno. It was a marriage bond."

March looked completely thrown-off, but Draco didn't care. Being Hermione's husband would enable him to go into the room.

And he was _getting_ into that fucking room.

"Well, we can check her magical ID and then let you know if you can enter for visitation. Are any of you immediate family? No?"

"Can you at least tell us how it went?" Arthur asked, arm around Molly as his other hand pressed to her shoulder. They both looked concerned.

Everyone gathered closer to listen, except for Theo and the Weaselbee, who lingered beside one another off to the side.

"It went fairly well," March explained. "It took some maneuvering—"

"What kind?" Draco growled, pushing his hood off and ruffling his hair in the process. "What kind of maneuvering?"

"Healing magic isn't as precise as we'd like—it's more of an overarching, blanketed type of magic. When things like this happen, it has to be combined with other types of magic and Muggle methods. We—"

"What the bloody Hell did you do to her?!" the Weaselbee shouted.

"Shut up," Draco snapped, moving forward toward the Healer. "Ignore him. Ignore anyone who isn't me. Is she going to live?"

"Yes."

Relief.

It drowned him.

"But I say that tentatively!" she said loudly, a stern expression on her face. "We restarted her heart. But we weren't able to heal all of the damage."

"What damage?" Arthur asked, a hand coming to rest on Draco's shoulder in a supportive gesture. "

"Mr . . . ?" March frowned, looking about. "Which of you is family, and which is not?"

"Weasley. Arthur Weasley. And she's like a daughter to me. Hermione's only got us, Healer March. Please, just tell me—tell us—what's the matter with her?"

"Mr. Weasley, her heart stopped because her heart is weak. Her potassium levels were so low that when she did whatever it was she did today to get her brought in here, her heart didn't have what it needed to keep beating. The medical term is Hypokalemia."

"Hypo—Hypo—" Arthur struggled with the word, squinting in confusion. "Hypothermia?"

"No. Hypokalemia. It's quite literally the medical term for low potassium." March crossed her arms low in front of her, one hand grabbing the opposite wrist. "We've given her some potions to help replenish the electrolytes and did what we could to get her heart beating, but her heart stopped several times while we were working on her. She's not yet awake."

Alarm bells inside Draco's spirit.

"You said she was all right," he said. "Is that not the case?"

"She's all right," March said, nodding slowly, "but she's not awake—"

Draco felt like water was rushing past his ears. He could hear nothing except the beating of his own heart.

"—because she is in a coma. That's where—"

"I know what that is," Draco snapped.

March paused, giving him a sharp look before saying, "She may wake up. She may not. If she does wake up, then she needs help. She's very sick and if she's going to get far, far away from the woods, she's going to need a lot of help making it through the trees."

Everyone was silent but Draco.

"How did you know?"

"The marks on her hands and the swelling around her lymph nodes, coupled with the electrolyte imbalance. I think it's pretty safe to guess what brought her in." March raised her eyebrows. "And now I know I'm right."

"I don't know if she'll want help," Draco muttered, already sensing the arguments that would come.

"If she wants to live, then she will. I don't think she can survive another day purging. It is my medical opinion that she won't survive even one more purge session until her electrolytes are back to where they should be."

"Yes. Okay." Draco's voice was a whisper. "I'll take care of her."

"No, you won't," Molly said, chastising. "Taking care of her is what got you into this mess. So, you'll do no such thing, and you'll leave the caretaking up to us. It's time for you to take a break."

Draco felt ashamed. It was very clear to him by the look on her face that Healer March knew he'd known for a while that Hermione was sick. That she blamed him in some sense but couldn't say anything and risk being unprofessional.

And he deserved it.

"I think we'll _all_ take care of her," Harry said with a pointed look tossed in Draco's direction. "No reason to take things on by ourselves when we all care about her."

"As if she'd want me anywhere near her," the Weaselbee muttered. "But I'll do my best."

Draco's gaze washed over him. The last thing he'd ever do was let him anywhere near her. The Weaselbee needed to worry less about Hermione's opinion and more about Draco's.

But that was something to worry about another day.

"Let me go back in and check on her," Healer March said, "and then I'll go get someone from our records department who has authorization to perform magical ID checks. Afterward, I'll send a nurse in to discuss options."

"Options? What does she mean by options?"

"I think she means options for care," Ginny said. "Like, because she said they were getting a permanent room for her."

As everyone around him began to talk, offering their opinions and conjectures, Draco found himself unable to focus on anything other than Theo.

This was his fucking fault. He was the reason why it had gotten so bad. He'd made it easier for her to get sicker, and now she might never wake up. Draco thought of all the times that he'd seen Hermione flee the Great Hall with Theo at her heels. He was like a lovesick puppy, whining and whimpering for just a smidgeon of affection from her.

Pathetic.

"Well, I'm sure that they'll only suggest the best options for her," Theo was saying, speaking to Molly as though he wasn't the reason Hermione was in there. "She's the reason why we won the war. They're going to make sure she's properly cared for."

Properly cared for? Draco was the only one who could make sure she was properly cared for. Theo didn't know how to do that. _Theo_ needed to shut the fuckup.

"I only hope they know what she's going through," Pansy said. "I mean, I'm sure they do. I just hope they know how to deal with it."

"Of course they do," Theo replied. "They'll know exactly what to do."

_You mean like you didn't?_

_Fucking tosser._

Healer March came back out and started conversing with Arthur, Molly, and the others.

Draco turned and stalked a few steps away, looking down the hallway at the other nurses and patients milling about in the adjacent corridor. He could feel his heart pounding faster as he struggled with his emotions. He was angry, the rage spreading along his fingers in tendrils that caused his fingers to tremble.

Blaise came to his side. Behind him, the conversation continued as though they hadn't left.

"Mate," Blaise said, hand on the back of Draco's neck. "You've got to let it go."

Draco's fingers fluttered along his own jaw, the feeling of the stubble providing nothing to soothe him of his growing anger.

"They're discussing her like she's in here for a Quidditch injury or a bad brew of Polyjuice, Blaise!" he hissed, his gaze cutting into Blaise's face. He knew his eyes looked pained. "They don't _know_ her. They don't know what she needs."

Blaise watched him, studying him for a moment. Then, his hand squeezed the back of her neck.

"I know they don't, Draco. But everyone cares about her. Everyone is worried. They're just speculating."

"I don't want them to speculate. I want them to stop pretending she mattered to them for even a second before now."

"Come on."

"No. _No,_ Blaise. You don't get it. You don't understand what we've—what _she_ ' _s_ been through." Draco lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, glancing back at the group. He saw that Healer March had come back out and bustled off in the opposite direction. He looked back at Blaise. "They've done nothing but stand by and watch while she falls apart, and I'm sick of it."

"I _know_." Blaise lifted his chin. "I know. But you have to understand that you can't control who her family is. You can't control the fact that they want to help her. You have to understand that the more people there are, the better. She needs to feel loved. If she's really as sick as you say, then she needs to feel _loved_."

Draco's eyes began to water, the sting of tears overwhelming him.

"She _is_."

Blaise pressed his lips together in a firm line, his hand sliding to his shoulder. "Then let it go."

Draco let it sink in for a moment, let the feeling of letting go fill his body and carry him down a river of reprieve. How easy it would be, to just . . . Let go. To share the responsibility and let everyone else deal with it for a while. Maybe forever.

He could walk out the door and come back when she was better.

"What're you thinking?" Blaise murmured. "I can see it on your face, and you've got friends. You're not alone."

A tear slipped down Draco's cheek as he breathed a laugh. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well then I'm thinking I wanna go."

"Go?"

Draco nodded. "I don't wanna be here."

Blaise let go of his shoulder and crossed his arms.

"Then go."

And Draco could go if he really wanted to. They were bonded, yes, but he could still walk away right now. He could wander off into the night and live a half-empty life until he died and it would be no different than the way he'd felt before he fell for her. Before Hermione, that's all he'd had to look forward to.

Emptiness.

It would be empty, but it would be his own. He wouldn't have to make rules for someone who should be able to make rules for themself. He wouldn't have to watch her eat and make sure she kept it down. He wouldn't have to lie awake at night, terrified that she might not make it to see the morning sunlight on the snow in the Winter, or the way the Summer breeze brushed through the grass on the hills outside of Hogwarts.

If he left, he wouldn't have to be afraid.

"Wait, you're _leaving_?"

* * *

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	44. Chapter 44

**TRIGGER WARNING: Violence. Trauma related talk, recovery talk, ED talk, horror imagery. Just overall triggering but I have no idea what to trigger it. No numbers or weight mentions, though.**

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**NEW COVER PHOTO DRAWN BY MY ARTIST, MEIALOUE~**

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**Apricity – Chapter Forty-Two**

Theo's voice brought all thoughts of walking away to a complete halt in Draco's mind.

Draco wiped the stray tear from his cheek, and then he and Blaise turned around. Theo stood there, glaring daggers at them both in turn. Behind him, everyone else was looking at them with various expressions of confusion and surprise on their faces.

Why did they look so surprised? Why would it shock them that he would leave? He was Draco Malfoy, the son of the man who ran. Lucius had always been the one to run, to hide, to be complacent. To make every move with fear at its base and the goal of placation at its heart. Yet here they all were, appearing stunned that Draco would actually consider running.

No one expected him to leave.

That shocked him, rocking him to his core. Had their opinion of him changed that much? Had _he_ changed that much? They wouldn't look so surprised if they knew how selfish he was.

"Draco," Theo said, his tone one of annoyance and disgust. "Are you actually _leaving_? Right when Hermione needs you the _most_?"

Blaise shook his head. "I think it's a little more complicated than that, mate."

"No, he was the one who said I didn't care about her!" Theo cried. "He's trying to make _me_ into the bad guy to help deal with _his_ guilt about making the wrong choices, too. If we all have a part and we're all still here, then why does _he_ get to leave?!"

Memories of the past two months passed across Draco's mind like rain clouds, all the signs he'd missed and all the ones he'd ignored. The mistakes he'd made and the pain he'd watched her inflict on herself. The fights and the tears and the dreams and the nightmares. The times he'd kissed her and it hurt. The times he'd kissed her and it didn't.

Paris. Paris. _Paris._

"Maybe all he needs is a break," the Weaselbee said in a low tone, avoiding Draco's gaze.

"He shouldn't _get_ a break. None of us do."

"All right," came Arthur's soothing. "Why don't we all just simmer down. I can go get some tea and bring it back to give us all a little pick-me-up. How does that sound?"

"I don't want tea," Theo snapped. "I want everyone to see how fucking mental he is. He has you all believing I'm some Dementor when he's not even staying to see if she makes it."

"Oh, come off it!" Pansy yelled. "He's not even left yet. He's just standing there, isn't he? Quit being so overdramatic just because you don't wanna admit what you did was wrong!"

"No, what _you're_ all doing is forgetting that _he's_ the one you should be questioning! No one finds it strange that he despised her for years and now, suddenly they're bonded together in holy fucking matrimony? No one finds it bizarre that he lit a lantern overnight and now he's fucking in love with her?! He can convince you all he's her husband, I'm the one who put her fucking fingers down her throat, and we're all to blame, but that's all okay because he's an angel and he gets to leave."

"Now _that's_ not even true," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "That's an exaggeration. You're grasping at wand cores, Nott."

Everyone was beginning to raise their voices, each person seeming to stand on a different side of the argument. But there was one general consensus.

Theo didn't know how to read the lines in his part of the play.

"Just let him take a break if he wants to!" Ginny was shouting. "I mean, this is mental. This is _actually_ mental. Did you or did you not get caught helping her make herself sick?"

"That's not what happened! I wasn't helping her _be_ sick. I was just _there_. I held her hair back and it's not good, but it's not like I was the one who—"

"But that is _mental!"_ Ginny yelled over him, clapping her hands. Her eyes were wide, like she was so angry she was barely seeing straight. She was much shorter than Theo but it did nothing to stop her from pushing her face into his in her ire. "You can't think it's normal to hold girls' hair back when they're throwing up! What's _actually_ wrong with you?!"

"It's not like that! You're making it sound way worse than it really was!"

"And now you're yelling at my girlfriend." Harry calmly shoved Theo back and then crossed his arms over his chest again. " _Calm_ down."

"So he gets to say whatever he wants and then just leave." Theo's face pinched into an expression of frustration. "It's not _fair_."

Fair.

Theo wanted it to be _fair_.

Draco snapped.

"You want it to be fair?" he hissed, storming toward him with death in his eyes and murder in the point of his finger. "Then start hating yourself. Start hating yourself until you can't stand it, and then control your food so you can control that hate. And when you lose control of both, then stuff yourself so full of that hate until you can't stand it and get rid of it. Get rid of it _over_ and _over_ and _over_ —" He jabbed his finger against Theo's chest repeatedly, each jab punctuating his words. "—and _over_ , until you're empty again. Because then, when you're empty, the hate has room to fill up again."

Theo's eyes were wide, his jaw slackened. "That's not—"

"Shut up. Shut your damn mouth." Tears of anger glittered in Draco's eyes, blurring his vision. He hated Theo in that moment. He hated him and it felt like he'd always hated him. "Don't tell me it's not fair. I'll tell you what's not fair. What's not fair is knowing that every single time I thought I was helping her—every single time I made progress with her . . . _You_ fucked it up."

"You know what?" Theo's arms shot up. He slammed his palms against the fronts of Draco's shoulders, shoving him backward so that he stumbled into Blaise. "You _should_ leave. Just go! Just fucking go! Take a look around, Draco. None of these people know the real you. None of them know what an absolute fucking _nightmare_ it was to be friends with someone as cruel as you. You're just like your father and the more you try to pretend you're not, the more you look just like him."

Draco _did_ want to leave.

He wouldn't have to make rules. He wouldn't have to make sure she ate. He wouldn't have to live in fear.

But if Draco left, then the emptiness would exist inside the cavern of his chest.

He was empty without her.

In one fluid movement, Draco lurched forward, clenched his hand into a fist, and arched his arm back. He whipped it forward, slamming it directly into the center of Theo's face. Theo's nose crunched beneath Draco's knuckles, the cartilage as weak as their fucking friendship.

In the midst of the frozen shock from the assembled friends and family members, Theo went down as though he'd simply passed away.

Draco crouched over him, grabbing the front of his shirt even as everyone started toward them. His fist reared back a second time.

In Theo's face, gone was the anger and temper that had urged him to say the horrid things he'd said. Gone was the indignation and the vendetta and the denial. Instead, there was only guilt. There were tears streaming down his face as he let out an almost anguished sob.

"Go ahead," he said. "I deserve it."

And he did. He did deserve it.

But the longer he looked at the pitiful boy beneath him, the more Draco realized that he was doing it again.

Another wrong choice.

As much as he wanted to destroy Theo, he knew he couldn't do it without destroying the part of himself that connected him to his past. And if he couldn't stay connected to his past—if he severed that connection with a fist to the face—then he'd forget how he came to be the man he was now.

The Draco who loved Hermione was born of the Draco who once hated her. He needed that Draco to be able to stay who he was now.

He needed to remember where he came from so he never went back.

"You do deserve it," he said, and then he lowered his fist. "But I don't. I don't deserve to live my life knowing that I hurt the people that I love more often than I don't. You fucked up, Theo, and instead of doing everything you can to reject the blame, you should spend more time figuring out how you're going to make it right."

He stood up, watching as Theo scooted backward, wiping the blood beneath his nose with the back of his hand. He couldn't seem to hold his gaze. Draco scrutinized his face one more time.

Finally, there was shame there.

"I'm not leaving her," Draco announced. "And if you care about her, neither are any of you. But if you stay, know that I _am_ putting my foot down. _I'll_ decide what options we take. I'll be the one to make the medical decisions for _my_ witch. And I don't care if you cringe, complain, or hate that. She is _mine_ to care for and if any of you do anything to disrupt that, I'll have you removed. However, if you stay, be prepared to work."

He paused and met each and every person's eyes in turn.

Draco saw a thoroughly-chastised Theo who now understood his place. A Ginny that appeared calm and confident in her decision to accept Draco. A Harry with his eyebrows raised over an expression of approval. A grinning Pansy who was still compassionate enough to kneel beside Theo and help him with his bloody nose. A smirking, proud Blaise who knew exactly who his best friend was. A teary-eyed Molly with the sort of love shining in her eyes that a mother would hold for someone important to her child—adopted or otherwise. And finally, an Arthur with the satisfied smile of a person who'd made the right choice playing about his lips.

Draco saw her friends and her family and he felt like he belonged.

"She isn't easy," he said to them, "but she's worth it."

For the first time all evening, there was silence in the corridor of St. Mungo's.

* * *

"Someone wanted a magical ID check on a patient?"

Draco looked up. He was sitting on one of the chairs with his elbows on his thighs and his fingers laced between them, his hood up on his head again. Hermione had been moved to the Intensive Care section, to a permanent room that she would be housed in until she woke up.

He still hadn't been allowed in.

Everyone had left to go home and get some rest, trusting Draco to handle Hermione's first night in the hospital. He'd been alone with his thoughts for the past thirty minutes.

He was terrified. Terrified that she wouldn't wake up. Terrified that he'd have to live with the knowledge that he hadn't told her he loved her one more time before she closed her eyes.

Terrified to lose her.

Now, a small, frail wizard stood in the corridor beside him, holding his wand in front of him. He had the same long, cloudy hair that Professor Dumbledore had possessed but his beard was only half as long.

"I do apologize for how long it took me to arrive. You wouldn't believe how many ID checks are performed daily here at St. Mungo's. It's gotten to the point where I don't think any of us really knows who he is."

Draco let out the polite sort of laugh one lets out when making small talk, and then he stood up.

"My—" He cleared his throat, still uncomfortable with the term. "Hermione Granger needs a magical ID check. She's in that room there."

"All right. Are you her family?"

"We're gonna find out."

The old wizard looked surprised, his eyebrows rising. "And what is your name, my boy?"

"Draco Malfoy."

His eyebrows rose higher. "Very well. I'll return shortly."

Draco waited in the hallway, his hands on his hips as the wizard disappeared into the hospital room. Sweat was starting to slick his palms.

Why was he so nervous? He knew they were bonded—Trelawney had confirmed it. He knew they'd consummated it. He could feel it in his core that he and Hermione were connected, and he'd always been able to feel it.

Why was he so scared?

The door reopened and out walked the wizard.

"Congratulations on your nuptials, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "I was certain a wedding in a family as illustrious as yours would have made the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Given who your father is."

There was no malice in his tone, so Draco took no offense.

He was too lightheaded to.

"So she's . . . ?" His hands went to the back of his head as the words registered. "The spell said she was . . . ?"

"Mrs. Malfoy can take visitors up until visiting hours end in twenty minutes but after that, make sure you leave. Don't forget to check out with the receptionist." He gave him the same sort of knowing smile that Dumbledore would have given him. "I believe this corridor has already gotten their notice. I don't believe they'll come by again tonight."

"Thanks," Draco said. He couldn't wait a second longer.

He went into Hermione's room.

It was quiet. So quiet that Draco could hear his own thoughts louder than the volume of his breath.

The virtually colorless room was small with a bed, a table beside it, one window, a door he assumed led to a loo, and an armchair. In the bed, Hermione lay in slumber, a flourish of brown skin and curls amongst the hollow emptiness of the room. There was a Muggle IV bag hanging from a silver stand beside her bed. It was attached to a tub that threaded life into her veins. Her eyes were closed.

She looked peaceful.

Draco withdrew his wand and conjured up a simple chair. He picked it up and set it beside the bed, sitting on the edge of it so he could be closer to the mattress. Closer to her.

He didn't know what it was. Perhaps seeing her there, with her chest rising and falling. Seeing her alive. Seeing her and remembering what it felt like to beg her to breathe.

Maybe that was why he started crying.

Draco ran a hand over his mouth, not bothering to wipe his tears as they fell. He watched her, stared at her, took her in in this most vulnerable state. He'd seen her in all of her most vulnerable states, from Paris to now, and he loved her.

She was his wife. Hermione Granger was now Hermione Malfoy. Their ages didn't matter. Their pasts didn't matter. All that mattered was their future.

Hermione was his wife, and she was his.

Draco reached for her hand, his own trembling. His long fingers wrapped around her slender ones, gentle so as not to squeeze her. He felt like she might shatter upon the mattress if he was too rough.

For the first time, her skin felt warm.

In the next second, he saw their entire future laid out before him. Inside of it, she was happy. She was happy and warm and smiling. And when she smiled, it reached her eyes. Inside of it, she was recovered.

He wanted that.

Draco dissolved into gut-wrenching sobs, holding her hand to his lips. He kissed it several times, until it became too many, and then he allowed himself the freedom to be sad. To sit in his emotions and embrace them. To not let them overwhelm him by allowing them the space to exist.

To accept that she might never wake up.

He _was_ sad. He was sad because even if she did wake up, she was still going to be in pain. She was still going to have a battle ahead of her that was going to be so tough and so strenuous that they both might quit. It was a battle he knew nothing about but that he was prepared to fight until the end.

Most of all, he was sad that he might lose the only person he had left.

Draco cried for so long that he fell asleep with his head on the bed beside her and her hand clutched tight.

He hoped he didn't wake up until she did.

* * *

_Paris was dark._

_The sky was empty of stars—completely black. It looked like someone had spilled ink across the universe, covering it in shadows and destroying the cosmos. There were no people and the lights burned eerie, no liveliness or warmth remaining in them. The Eiffel Tower looked like a beacon for the dead, shining light into the nothing to beckon them closer._

_And Draco was on the ground in the alleyway._

_Confused, he sat up, glancing around._

_Where were all the people? Why was the sky so dark?_

_Why was his skin crawling?_

_This was Paris and it had always been their nightmare, but it was always alive. There were people. Voices. Life._

_Now, it felt dead._

_What was more dead than a nightmare?_

_Draco stood up, glancing down to see he was in the same hooded jumper and torn denims that he'd worn that day in the waking world. He glanced behind him, down the alleyway towards the section of the city that he remembered Hermione having come from the first time._

_It faded into pitch darkness._

_A shiver rippled up his spine. This was very, very different from the first two times. It felt sinister. Wrong._

_He swallowed and turned to face the street. Walking out to the empty sidewalk, he saw the promenade. It was lit up like Christmas just as always, but there were no people milling about outside the shops. In every direction, everything faded into the pitch darkness that was also behind him. It was almost like the light existed around him. Almost like . . ._

_Was he the light in this dream?_

_Another shudder ran through him, urging him onward. He crossed the street, not bothering to look both ways knowing that if there were no people, then there would be no cars. He turned and headed for the hotel. It loomed high and blue before him, countless black windows stretching up to the dark, starless sky._

_Only one window was lit up._

_Draco entered the hotel._

_The lobby looked strange. The lights were on as though there were people to run the hotel but the concierge desk was empty. He headed for the elevator, feeling another chill traveling up each vertebrae of his spine like a tracing hand. When he stepped inside and turned to face the lobby, the ink of the sky had followed him._

_It was dark._

_As the doors shut, Draco gulped._

_He really_ was _the light._

_The elevator's music was off tempo, playing a discordant tune that sounded like a broken melody. Like the person playing it was missing half of the sheet music, or the notes were incorrect. Draco hated it. It made him feel like his ears were bleeding or like time was bouncing back in on itself._

_It felt like he was at the event horizon._

_Stepping off of the elevator felt like the shredded pieces of himself had sewn themselves back together. He gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. It felt tight, like the air up here was constricted and thin. Glancing behind him, he saw darkness in the elevator when the doors closed on the warped music still playing inside._

_And then it was silent._

_Draco looked down the hall to the right. The blue carpet and white walls with the generic ocean-themed paintings faded into darkness, just like everything else beyond the halo of light that surrounded him. He couldn't look at it too long—it felt like something was going to jump out at him._

_He went to the left, headed for the room he knew to be hers. This time, he didn't knock. He placed his hand on the handle and turned it, pushing it open so that he could step inside. Closing it behind him, he looked in and saw that the room was empty. Outside the window, he saw the Tower, its light barely making traction against the starless sky. The light of the lamp was on and the curtains were open, just like they had been the first two times._

_It felt like he was lost in space. Like this version of Paris existed, but only in a place far away from the Paris he knew. He was standing in it but all around him, there was nothing for lightyears and lightyears, just like the stars in space. From Earth, they looked like they existed together. In reality, they were far apart, dark matter keeping them lonely._

_There was something so cosmically horrific about it that he believed time had dissolved._

_He looked at the loo._

_The door was cracked, dim light spilling out from the small opening. Draco crept closer. The bubble of silence burst._

_Someone was crying._

_Draco pushed the door open and stepped into the small room._

_The light was dingy, the lightbulb dirty and hazed. It looked like the room was decaying, the paint on the walls peeling away as though it were hundreds of years old. The large mirror was shattered, lines splintering outward like spiderwebs. Beneath his boots, the tile floor was cracked and molding. The tub, once pristine and white, was yellowing with bacteria._

_The toilet was full of vomit, browns and greens pooled in the dirty water and giving off a scent as rancid as rotting flesh._

_Hermione was nude in the bathtub with her back to the door, sitting in bloody water that sloshed over the edge while the shower poured more on top of her head. She shivered, signifying that the water was ice-cold, and her arms were wrapped around her knees. The ends of her curls trailed through the water, floating atop it like tendrils of shadow._

_She was covered in blood._

_Draco took a cautious step closer and saw that the washcloth was floating near her, soaked crimson. He could hear that her sobs were not as wordless as he'd originally thought. They had purpose and meaning. They were a lamentation._

_She was counting._

" _One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five."_

_Draco stopped beside the tub, his heart beating a painful tattoo in his chest as he put the pieces together. She'd washed herself for so long that she'd scrubbed her flesh raw. That was why she was covered in blood. That was why the water ran red._

" _One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five."_

_Draco's thoughts raced, tripping over themselves as they came together and formed the answers._

_Their dream worlds were different._

_Draco's was rolling hills, an emerald sky, silver stars, gardenias that glowed opalescent in the moonlight. The sea was his father. The flowers were his mother. The colors were the things that made him happy. The mountains and sprawling grass knolls represented a state of being where he could exist in paradise._

_His dream world was a place where he felt loved._

_Hermione's was a shameful, tiny, dirty place where all she could do was burn. She burned in torment night after night, forced to relive the moment that time had stopped for her. And now that she had died—now that her heart had stopped and she was barely clinging to life—the nightmare had turned to shadows. It was now a place where she could wash, and wash, and wash, and she would never feel clean. She had a bloody shower, a splintered mirror, decaying paint, and a toilet full of sick._

_Her dream world was a cage._

_And that was the answer._

_The answer to the question of why Draco had never been able to go into her dreams without outside affect, yet she had been able to go into his. It was because their dreams were not of their minds. They were not figments of their imagination, existing in their heads to bring those imagined things to life._

_Their dreams were of their hearts._

_Draco's dream world was a reflection of his heart. Hermione's dream world was a reflection of her heart. The star bond drew a path between the two. Before now, he'd only seen her memories because she was alone. But he was here now. He had the key to her chains._

_She'd finally let him in._

" _One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four—"_

" _Hermione."_

_She went rigid. "Why are you here?"_

_Draco was calm as he stood there, next to the bath. "I'm here for you."_

" _Get out."_

" _No."_

" _Why can't you just leave me alone?" She ducked her head down further, the blood swirling in the water. "I just wanna be_ alone _."_

" _I know," he said, "but I'm not gonna let you. Not anymore."_

" _You're not here because you don't want me to be alone," she spat, her voice thick and muffled as her back hunched further. Her words grew slurred, frenetic. "You're not here because you care. You're only here because you want something out of me. You're all the same. You all want things out of me. Everything. Everything I have. You want to take it. To take it and take me and leave nothing behind."_

" _That's not true." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself amongst the putrid air in the room. "I don't want anything that you don't want to give me. I just want you, no matter how much you decide to give."_

" _I thought that's what you wanted," she said before she let out an anguished sob. "I thought you wanted the real me. But I'm not good enough. Who I am—the real me—isn't good enough for you. I'm manipulative and evil. I'm so evil and everything about me is bad. Maybe if I wasn't so bloody evil, then bad things wouldn't happen to me. Maybe he wouldn't have—have—" She spat out the word._ "Raped _me. Maybe Ron would have liked me better."_

_Hermione was devolving, reverting back to the person she was before Draco took the destroyed pieces of her heart and helped her put them back together. He was watching her fall apart._

_Draco knew now what he'd done wrong._

" _And now I'm dead," she continued, weeping like a mournful ghost. "I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead. And I'm not coming back."_

" _You're not dead," he said. "And you're not bad. But you have to learn to see that for yourself. It's not enough to see yourself through my eyes—you have to see yourself through your own."_

" _How am I supposed to do that when everything I see makes me want to vomit?!"_

" _You heal. You work on yourself, you take it slow, and you heal." Draco lifted his chin. "I can help you."_

" _No."_

" _Yes. You're not dead—you're just sleeping. If you wake up, I can help you learn how to help yourself get better—"_

" _No!"_

"— _so you can work on healing and recover. And then—"_

" _No. No, no,_ no!"

"— _you can see your worth on your own without needing me to be your eyes."_

" _No, no, no, no—" She inhaled and started shrieking it. "—_ no, no, no, no, no _!"_

_Draco looked away for a moment._

_He'd thought everything else was difficult. The war, Sixth Year, watching his father go to prison and waste away to the Cruciatus, watching his mother die . . . But he was wrong._

This _was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do._

" _I can't be your eyes, Hermione. You have to be able to see it for yourself. You can't do this anymore, and neither can I. For both of us—for our_ family _—you have to take the first step. You have to cross that river and take the first step to getting better."_

_Hermione's hands slammed over her ears, the bloody water splashing against Draco's denims. She shook her head, the denial manifesting as dark, painful shadows that spread outward from her body._

" _You don't love me," she crooned, falling into fresh sobs. "No one does."_

" _That's not true, either." He was shaking. "I do."_

" _No, you don't. If you loved me, you wouldn't take it away from me. It's the only thing I have. Without it, I won't have anything that I can control."_

" _And with it, you'll die."_

_She was silent for a long moment, sniffling as she huddled there. Then, she whimpered._

" _I can't."_

" _You can."_

" _I don't want to."_

" _And I love you."_

" _No." She squeezed her eyes shut—he could see it from her profile. "I don't want it."_

_Draco's voice trembled as he said, "I love you."_

" _Stop."_

" _I love you."_

"Please stop _!" she cried, rocking back and forth with her face buried in her knees._

_She was curled up so tight, like she didn't want to take up space anymore. Like she wanted to disappear and cease existing._

_Draco sank to his knees on the dirty tile. He lifted his hand, fingers still quivering, and he placed it on her back over her wet curls. She jolted but did not move away. The water was freezing cold, a cold so icy that it sunk deep into his bones._

" _I chose you," he whispered. "And I'll continue to do so over and over again, no matter how hard it gets. You are so valuable to me and you have worth simply because you exist. I won't stop until you see that. But I can't carry you anymore, okay? I'm tired. I just want to hold your hand while we get through this together."_

_Draco paused to take a breath. He was vulnerable. This was his heart._

" _You are_ it _for me."_

_Hermione lifted her head, slowly turning it toward him. She looked into his eyes, her own glimmering like crystals with the amount of tears she held unshed within them._

_And then she screamed._

_Her eyes popped open. She opened her jaw wide—so wide that it was almost inhuman—and she screamed. She screamed and she screamed and she screamed._

_It hurt._

_The volume rose to a crescendo so high that he felt his ears begging him for reprieve. Draco collapsed backward onto the floor, his back hitting the cupboard beneath the sink as he covered his ears with his hands. Hermione looked like a monster, her hair hanging in wet strands over her face, blood streaking her tawny skin with crimson. The shadows she emitted grew thicker, pervading the light Draco gave off and trying to stifle it._

_She screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and—_

_Then, he heard it._

_Cracking sounds, like an ice floe breaking into pieces._

_Draco looked up._

_It was the walls. They were splintering, just like the glass of the mirror. The louder her monstrous screams, the faster they cracked. Her eyes squinted shut. Her screaming intensified, got even louder, and then—_

_The room shattered._

_It completely shattered, glass shards of her nightmare scattering all over into nothing. Draco was the only source of light for miles and miles as they fell through the dark, starless sky. His stomach lifted clear into his chest to join his pounding heart, fear bringing a horror that he'd never felt before to the forefront of his mind._

_Hermione wasn't screaming anymore._

_She was reaching for him._

'Stop trying to hold it together and be perfect all the time. You certainly don't need to do it for me.'

_And Draco knew this was it—she was reaching out. She wanted help. She was reaching for him because she was ready to get better._

_He just had to take her hand._

" _Wake up, Hermione!"_

'You don't have to do or say or be anything other than yourself.'

_Draco reached for her, his arm straining as they fell through space and time in circles. The tips of their fingers brushed. Her eyes were wide, full of terror and desperation as she scrambled, trying to grasp hold. He curled his fingers, trying to twine them together, to connect the two of them the same way the stars did._

" _Hermione, please wake up!"_

'I'm scared I'll hurt you.'

_But he missed._

_He missed, and her hand went to the right. His fingers slipped past._

_They both gasped._

" _Hermione," he said, voice frantic as their gazes locked one last time. "When we wake up, I have to tell you something. If you wake up right now, I promise you that I will tell you everything. But you have to wake up."_

" _I'm trying," she said, squeezing her eyes shut again and again. "I'm trying! I'm—"_

'You. Are. Clean.'

_She faded._

_Hermione faded into nothing and was gone._

_Draco was alone in the darkness. Falling for eternity as Hermione faded away from her own dream. Falling and falling and falling. Something clawed at the back of his mind, one sharp nail gouging at the same spot over and over and over._

'Do you hear me?'

_Something felt broken. Something felt wrong._

'I still want you.'

_Destroyed._

'I will take you far away from here and take care of you. For the rest of my fucking life. I just need you to keep trying. Okay?'

_Shattered._

'Don't stop trying. Don't ever stop trying.'


End file.
